


Faun Watson and the Jealous Ex

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Satyr Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anthropomorphic, Frotting, M/M, Male Lactation, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Rimming, Rutting, Same Sex Marriage, giant penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is hunting Satyrs and they aren't the typical serial killer- they're organized and clearly supported by the criminal element.</p><p>(Faun Watson and the Vicious... something... coming soon. Having trouble w/ the title.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

_Previously, In Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective:_

_Sherlock frowned at his phone. The picture of the symbol felt familiar somehow. He stood up and glanced out his window, nodding to himself. He’d seen it painted elsewhere around the city and there was one across their flat. It had since been painted over with other forms of graffiti, but you could still see it if you were looking closely enough. To his annoyance, he couldn’t recall when it had first appeared._

_So, we are being watched as well. Interesting._

 

CHAPTER 1

Sherlock kept John close for the next several days, a fact which John showed a great deal of gratitude for. The consulting detective threw himself into learning more about Satyr culture than he previously had and quickly discovered that an estranged family like John’s was unusual. Families usually kept very close together for their entire lives, only separating if it was necessary for them to find a mate. John’s statement that them being half-siblings with a large age gap didn’t make much sense since even half or step children tended to stay close to each other, sharing everything except heats/ruts. Finally Sherlock gave in and questioned Lestrade in the hope of getting more from him than from his suddenly withdrawn husband.

“I wish I knew, Sherlock,” Lestrade sighed from his spot on the floor with his children surrounding him, “John’s lack of relationship with his siblings is downright alarming. No wonder he couldn’t find a mate on the Reservation.”

“That would affect his ability to find a mate?”

“Well,” Lestrade sighed, “From what I know the rate of homosexual male satyr has dropped lately. The Mystics tell us it’s because the gods want us to breed and male/female couples breed faster. Some believe it’s also because we’ve stayed on reservations and that state is an unnatural one- that we need to leave and become ‘one’ with the world around us now that we’re no longer in isolation on the Islands. Add to that John’s lack of familial relationship and you’ve got a potent mix for a permanent bachelor. He should have been married _long_ before you met him. That’s probably why he was fetched when you were found and seemed uninterested in the Doe who located you. He was the only gay, single Buck around.”

“Family plays a part in coupling?”

“In non-heat/rut related coupling, yes. A prospective spouse would visit and watch their intended’s interaction with their family to see what kind of a spouse they would make. John should have been helping his sisters raise their Kidds and hunting with his brothers. Half-sibling doesn’t mean a damn thing in our culture, even step siblings would be tight knit. If any of his siblings were unmarried he’d be sharing a bunk with them- platonically, obviously. That’s just how close our culture is.”

Sherlock curiously watched as Mycroft interacted with his new Satyr staff. He was affectionate with them, hugging them and speaking with mere inches between their bodies. Gone was the formal diplomat. Sherlock felt a pang of sorrow at the sight. What Lestrade described he had never known, yet here was his own brother behaving like a Satyr with his non-familial housemates.

“He’d do the same for you, you know,” Lestrade intoned, reading him in that uncanny way he had, “He just doesn’t know how to make the first move. You could.”

“What, hug him? Snuggle up to his side and chit-chat about what? The weather? The state of the government?”

“His Kidds?” Lestrade suggested, giving Sherlock a sharp look.

Sherlock’s jaw clicked shut and he looked down at the children at his feet. They were looking up at him with alarmingly intelligent eyes for children just shy of a week old. Adrastos stood up on steady legs and reached his arms up to be picked up. Having been coddled quite a bit at birth, the lad still tended to want to be carried everywhere. Sherlock scooped him up and put him over his shoulder, having learned the hard way that Satyr children were _never_ placed on your hip; not unless one desired a trip to the hospital to have your testicles examined for permanent damage. He put a hand under the tots bottom, relaxed in the fact that Kidds were toilet trained from a few days old. He carried him across the room to his Sire and gave Mycroft a tight-lipped smile.

“What has you so nervous?” Mycroft asked, turning his familiar charm with his staff off and giving Sherlock a familiar cold glance. The reaction from the staff was instantaneous. He saw a look of confusion and fear cross the governess’ face and then she slowly backed away as though facing two predators rather than her employer and his sibling.

Sherlock steeled himself and stepped into Mycroft’s personal space. He slipped his arm around his brother’s waist and pressed close.

“Adrastos here is doing well,” Sherlock stated, keeping his eyes on the thumb sucking tot.

Mycroft hesitated only the barest of moments before slipping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and leaning close. Sherlock gasped when a kiss landed on his cheek but relaxed a second later.

“He is, isn’t he?” Mycroft replied with pride and warmth in his voice, “My dearest husband has assured me we are well past the danger zone, though I would be more content if we could visit a pediatrician.”

“I could have John look at him, if you like. I know he wants to see the Kidds more, and he has an uncanny ability with healing. He tells me he had wanted to learn from his village healer, but thought it would inhibit his chances of finding a male mate if he didn’t spend enough time with the other males.”

“You should send him to school, or at least an online course. Perhaps he would benefit from a diversion at a time like this, and of course he is more than welcome to come and spend time with the triplets.”

Sherlock nodded at the wisdom, “I’d been considering it, but I hadn’t brought it up in light of my distraction towards the case. I suppose he could use a distraction as well.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock’s shoulders a firm squeeze, transferred Adrastos onto his own shoulder, and shooed Sherlock away. Sherlock nodded gratefully to Lestrade but didn’t manage to meet Mycroft’s eyes. He was flushed with embarrassment and thrilled at his success at the same time. He hurried out of the fine house and hailed a cab.

XXX

Sherlock came home flushed in the way that usually meant he had solved a case. John stood up, hope that his sister’s murder had been solved filling his heart, only to find himself wrapped in Sherlock’s very needy embrace.

“Take me. Please. Hard.”

Sherlock’s voice trembled with emotion, and John was only too willing to break his days long mourning period by making love to his slim, handsome husband. He scooped the tall creature into his arms, feeling the heat of Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his nearly bare waist, and carried his lover to the bedroom with steady hooves that had walked that path in this way many times. He tossed Sherlock down on the bed, knowing his lover enjoyed the roughness, and pounced on him with a growl.

Sherlock wriggled and struggled with him, mock-fighting as they rolled about on the bed. When the blankets tangled they tossed them aside and attacked each other’s lips with a potent fury. Lips swelled beneath bruising force, teeth clashed together, tongues fought like angry serpents while hips pressed greedily against each other.

John knew what Sherlock needed and was more than eager to give it to him. He shoved his lover aside and snatched the lubricant from the bedside table. Turning him over with enough force to bruise his shoulders he pressed him into the mattress as if to command him to stay put. Sherlock moaned and lifted his hips, spreading his legs in offering. John wasn’t even certain _when_ his trousers had come off, but he took his pants in his teeth and _tore_ them from his lover’s body. Sherlock gasped and his freed cock bounced and leaked on the mattress below him. John leaned forward to breathe in Sherlock’s scent from his perineum where his lover’s musk was the strongest before trailing his tongue from his bollocks up his throbbing taint to his twitching hole. He circled the dusky pucker for a moment before firming his tongue and pressing in relentlessly. Sherlock gasped, quivered beneath him, and then relaxed to his assault with a whimper.

John fucked him with his tongue until it tired and then pulled back to thrust a slick finger inside of him without waiting for adjustment. Sherlock gasped at the intrusion, his head coming up with a jerky motion before falling back to the mattress with a moan of approval. John pumped it twice before pressing another in and then another in quick succession. Sherlock moaned at the burn from the third, but John wasn’t done. He fucked Sherlock with his fingers for several minutes, glorying in the feel of that clenching channel. Sherlock whimpered and squirmed beneath him as John pressed loving kisses to his buttocks and then began to give those full orbs decisive nips. Sherlock gasped at this new play and jumped with each jolt of pain.

Finally John pressed his fourth finger inside and held it while Sherlock gasped and stilled, focusing on the stretch in his arse. When he was certain his lover was properly prepared he slid his fingers free and lined up his own throbbing member. Their first time would be fast and hard, more to give Sherlock an emotional thrill than a physical one, so John spared no concern for Sherlock’s pleasure. He took him fast and hard, thrusting into that tight heat with wild abandon. He let himself grunt and growl, making animalistic noises that he knew drove Sherlock wild. The Man below him gasped, moaned, whimpered, and pleaded, surrendering himself to John’s aggressive buggering with a sob of relief.

John could feel his heavy bollocks drawing up already so he angled himself to hit Sherlock’s prostate to _really_ drive the Man wild and hit it with just this side of too much force. Sherlock began to shout and scream beneath him, struggling as if to get away, but John’s firm grip on his arms kept him soundly in place. He grasped Sherlock’s elbows and pulled them back so that Sherlock’s upper torso lifted off the bed. He ground into the man forcefully, snapping his hips so that Sherlock was bounced away from him and then came crashing back with mind-blowing pleasure. John’s eyes were rolling back in his head, his breath coming in frantic pants, his body tense as the hot coil in his belly wound tighter and tighter before snapping and exploding into his lover. John moaned in relief as his cock spasmed in pleasure, filling Sherlock with hot come as the man gasped and whimpered while impaled helplessly on his throbbing shaft.

John gently lowered Sherlock’s upper torso back onto the mattress and just like that their entire attitude changed. Sherlock began to keen for relief from his arousal so John gently turned him over and showered him with kisses. He started on those swollen and bleeding lips, moved to Sherlock’s neck and ears, licking the shell of his ear until the man shivered with desire. Then he slid further down and lapped at his collar before nipping at, and then gently soothing with soft presses of his tongue, each peaked nipple. Sherlock was a groaning mess, his hips jerking off the bed in search of friction, but John had them gently pinned down. He nuzzled his stomach with his nose, drawing a snicker from his lover who swatted at him in annoyance, and then moved down to press nips and kisses to each sharp hipbone.  

“John,” Sherlock sighed as though the name were air to breathe.

“Sherlock,” John whispered back, putting as much love and need as he could into those two sounds.

 He moved down to nuzzle on either side of his cock, delighting in Sherlock’s gasps and soft twitches, he let his long ear brush against the Man’s needy cock, but nothing else. When he moved down to Sherlock’s bollocks, burying his face in them and rubbing firmly, Sherlock let out a growl of frustration and tugged at his hair. John chuckled, the vibration drawing a moan from Sherlock, and then moved down to the apex of his thighs to his lover’s absolute frustration.

“Damn it, John! Fuck me! Finger me! Suck me off! Something! ANYTHING!!”

“I am doing something, Sherlock, I’m memorizing your beautiful body,” John scolded, and then moved down to lift his thighs and lap at the underside of his knees.

Sherlock was back to being a whimpering mess of need, a state that John wholeheartedly approved of. He went down to his ankles and nipped at the soft tendons there before working his way back up with slow deliberate kisses along the calf, knee, inside of his thigh, and finally ending by sucking each testicle slowly into his mouth to tease with his tongue before releasing it and moving onto the other. He kept this up until Sherlock made a grab for his cock, which he easily batted away. Then he leaned forward and swiped his tongue from root to tip of that leaking, throbbing member. He wouldn’t have been shocked it if had triggered an orgasm at that point, but was glad when it did not. Sherlock was producing copious amounts of pre-come and John lapped at it greedily, dipping his tongue into the slit to sample the source. Sherlock groaned and tugged at his hair again.

“In time, my love,” John soothed.

“Now,” Sherlock begged, his voice raw, “Please, John. Please!”

John moved up Sherlock’s body and pressed their mouths together with the most tender caress he could manage while achingly hard and wanting to be inside his husband. Sherlock whimpered into the kiss, then moaned throatily as their tongues glided together intimately. While he was distracted by the kiss John pressed against his sopping wet entrance and Sherlock gasped against his mouth.

“That’s it, love, let me back in. I’ll bring you such pleasure this time.”

Sherlock turned his head aside, overwhelmed by how vulnerable he felt, and spread his legs wider in invitation, his hands holding them just below the knees.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” John whispered to him, then pressed slowly inside, savoring the hot, wet heat that enveloped his aching member.

Slowly, but with strength behind each one, John began to thrust into Sherlock’s slack body. The consulting detective gasped with each press to his sensitive p-spot and moaned John’s name as if begging for sustenance. John was more than willing to give it to him and propped himself up on one arm so he could watch Sherlock’s reaction as he took his aching prick in hand. He stroked his lover firmly, but slowly- keeping him hovering on the edge of orgasm for as long as possible until Sherlock’s body couldn’t hold out any longer and he came with a soft cry. John watched Sherlock’s seed spill over his fingers and paint the man’s flat stomach with white stripes. He kept touching him until he sighed in relief and went limp beneath him before bringing his fingers to his mouth and slowly licking off each one while Sherlock watched with wide eyes. Once his digits were clean, John picked up the pace and began to moan deeply, his head thrown back and eyes closed. He knew this display would excite his lover and soon found his own body subjected to all matter of firm caresses and eager pinches. John had four nipples, six if you counted the underdeveloped ones that more resembled barely-raised moles on his abdomen, and it had taken Sherlock time to show interest in the lower two. They were just as sensitive as the upper two, though, and touching them sent shots of pleasure down John’s body and into his throbbing cock. Sherlock rubbed, pinched, and flicked the four receptive peaks until John was gasping in excitement and bordering on climax.

“When this is done, I want to take you,” Sherlock growled.

His words through John over the edge and he came with a strangled cry, his cock spilling into Sherlock’s willing body. No sooner had he finished coming than he pulled out and scrambled frantically up Sherlock’s body to straddle him. Two of Sherlock’s long fingers slipped inside and scissored immediately, trying to stretch John’s body as quickly as possible. John was vaguely aware that he was babbling- begging Sherlock to take him _fast, now, hard, please!_ Sherlock was just hardening again and John slid back down to wrap his lips around Sherlock’s shaft and encourage him to thicken faster.

Once he had his lover hard enough to ride, John struggled upright again and sank down on him with a groan of relief. John’s natural lubricant slicked their way, and Sherlock was soon gripping John’s hips and thrusting up to meet him with eager grunts.

“Come inside me?” John whimpered hopefully, knowing that sometimes Sherlock couldn’t climax a second time in such quick succession.

“Yesssss,” Sherlock replied, his words turning sibilant with desire.

John moaned, throwing his head back and speeding up as he clenched his muscles greedily. He knew there was likely to be very little seed in Sherlock’s second ejaculation, but he still craved the feel of it inside of him even if it was unlikely to produce the young he so desperately wanted. John rode Sherlock with near desperate need, moaning his name out like a mantra.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “Oh, John, my love, my husband, my everything!”

“Sherlock! Mate me, breed me, fill me with your seed, please!”

“John! I… oh!”

John gasped and the feel of warmth flooding his body sent him spiraling over the edge once more. His mouth open in a silent scream, he panted Sherlock’s torso with long ribbons of come as pleasure rendered him a convulsing, quivering, pile of goo. John went limp and collapsed across Sherlock’s body, enjoying the man’s final few thrusts up into him before he too relaxed with a sigh.

 “My love,” Sherlock whispered.

“My brilliant light,” John replied.

“My conductor of light,” Sherlock smiled against John’s forehead.

“My husband.”

“My husband,” Sherlock sighed as though the words completed him, “My _family_.”

XXX

Sherlock was surprised to hear John whimper as though sad when Sherlock called him family. If John were so estranged from his, if he hardly thought of them as he claimed to, why on earth was he so saddened by their absence? By the idea of family? By Harry’s death? Was it guilt? Pretense? Was he holding some horrible secret? Did it have to do with his longing to have Kidds with Sherlock and to visit Mycroft and Lestrade’s Kidds daily? Was John trying to replace his distant family with a new one?

Sherlock held his husband tightly and let his mind chase pathway after pathway of logic in a constant attempt to find the solution that seemed right outside of his reach. He _would_ ease his lover’s pain. No matter what it took.

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/135805.html)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was gone the next morning, but John was used to him running off without him on a regular basis. What _did_ surprise him was to find Lestrade had gone as well, as evidenced when he headed over to his in-law’s home to find the staff in charge with word that Lestrade might be gone for some time. His Kidds were devastated by the prolonged absence of their father, so John ended up staying the night when Sherlock didn’t answer his texts. The children ended up staying in their parents’ bed with John and Mycroft, snuggled together and twitching from time to time. Satyr didn’t move much in their sleep, though occasional kicks were not uncommon in children. They slept deeply with their parents’ and uncle’s scent nearby and John survived with only one kick to his thigh the whole night.

The next morning John and Mycroft silently enjoyed breakfast together. They touched infrequently, but not with the closeness that they shared with their spouses or even the hired help. That didn’t bother John. He didn’t expect a human to be perfect at signaling Satyr non-vocal communication. He just let himself enjoy the socialization with the servants. They were nearly done lunch when they got a call from Lestrade on Mycroft’s mobile. He stood up and motioned for John to follow him while he was still listening to the caller on the phone. They headed out into the hallway and John leaned against the wall anxiously while Mycroft stared at a picture on the wall. Finally he turned and gave John a significant look.

“Very well. We’ll be on our way,” Mycroft stated before ending the call, and stepping forward to hold John very tightly.

“Tell me they’re alive.”

“Barely,” Mycroft replied softly, “They’re both in a hospital in Portsmouth. Gregory hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

It was with some consideration that Mycroft left the children behind. He didn’t want them to see their father that way. They left within half an hour, delayed mostly by the children’s tears. Once they reached Portsmouth they were delayed once more by the local police who required they prove who they were before entering their spouses’ rooms. Mycroft looked fit to throw his weight around, but in the long run producing ID was faster.

Finally they stepped into a room where Sherlock and Lestrade were stretched out on two beds which had been pushed together. Sherlock was holding Lestrade’s hand and looking concerned. John rushed to his side while Mycroft walked slowly to Lestrade’s. Sherlock was hooked up to a few minor tubes with an oxygen mask on, but Lestrade was hooked up to enough monitors to make John’s head spin.

“What happened,” John asked, petting Sherlock’s sweat-dampened hair, “Are you going to be okay?”

“We were gas bombed,” Sherlock replied, his voice cracking and hoarse, “Fifteen people died. It’s being kept hushed up.”

“I didn’t think those looked like local constabularies out there,” Mycroft scoffed, “I’ll have to have a word with MI6 once I have control of them. They were far too obvious.”

John glared at him but Mycroft only raised an eyebrow. He was still working his way up to his father’s old position, but he intended to surpass him quite soon.

“Will you be okay?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded weakly, “The assailants saw us. It’s strange. We were following up on a lead for more of those eye symbols. There was one in a train,” Sherlock paused weakly, swallowing repeatedly with his eyes closed before continuing, “We were studying it when a group of men in suits walked in and started spraying gas. All the windows were glued shut. People were dying around us. Coughing up blood. We tried breaking the windows, someone tried to tackle them. Gas overcame them. Nothing worked. The glass had been replaced. Wouldn’t break. Rear door was sealed. Didn’t see how. Then one of them shouted my name and pulled out a gun. I thought ‘Well, I’ll die a bit faster. Less painful. Nice of him.’ Except he shot the window beside me creating a few small holes, while the other men turned off the gas. They all fled, leaving the door open. I pressed my face to the opening in the window. Others stampeded out the door. Two people died while trying to pull me away from the holes in the window.”

“Gods,” John whispered in horror.

“We were separated. Lestrade tried for the door. He got trampled. Broken ribs. Went into shock. Barely made it to A&E.”

Mycroft finally gave into his urge to touch Lestrade and slipped his hand into the Satyr’s, holding it gently as if he were made of spun glass.

“John, they stopped because I was there. They knew me. By sight. Lestrade was coughing, he couldn’t have said my name. They actively tried to _save me_ from their assault. It doesn’t make sense. They panicked when they realized I was there. Who were they attacking if not Lestrade or I? Is the Eye a sign for murder to occur? Do the victims even matter?”

John shook his head, “It makes no sense.”

“I need you to find out who the other victims were. I need to find a connection,” Sherlock paused, whimpering in pain, “I’m tired, John.”

“Go to sleep, Sherlock,” John soothed, petting his hair, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“I didn’t want Lestrade to be alone. I asked them to push our beds together. Told them it was Satyr tradition so they’d let us.”

“That was good,” John soothed, “You were so good to him. I’m so glad you’re safe. I love you, Sherlock. So much.”

John sat by Sherlock’s side, silently crying at what he could have lost while the man quickly slipped into slumber. Beside him Mycroft was determined to remain stoic, but John could see him aching with worry. As soon as a nurse stepped in he interrogated the man, demanding to know what had happened. He dutifully fetched the doctor they had been promised some time ago. The dark skinned woman had compassionate eyes that soothed John instantly. She told him she had an extra degree for working with Satyr’s, so Lestrade was in good hands.

“They were dosed with a very simple gas, actually,” The doctor explained, “It was hydrochloric acid. The forensics team got a hold of one of the canisters that were left behind. They were using an old DDT sprayer* to distribute it so it was actually a fine mist spraying out. Mr. Holmes didn’t get hit with it, he only breathed it in, but Mr. Lestrade has a few burns on his arms. They’ll heal in a month or so as long as we can get him through the rough part. It’s their lungs we’re really concerned about.”

“How bad is the damage?” Mycroft asked.

“Mr. Lestrade is worse than Mr. Holmes, but they both got a heavy dose. So far Mr. Holmes is out of the woods, but Mr. Lestrade we’re still very concerned for. We’ve had a pulmonologist take a look at their scans and he’s hopeful that there will be full recovery for both. Mr. Lestrade will be needing treatments for some time, but we don’t expect complications once we’re over the initial hump. Of course, lung cancer could become an issue for either of them. Have they ever smoked?”

John and Mycroft both nodded unhappily and the discussion continued on to statistics. When asked if fertility would be an issue, they were reassured that it would not.

“Mr. Lestrade wasn’t exposed long enough for his eggs to be effected and Mr. Holmes’ semen will be fine by the next production.”

Once the doctor left John turned to Sherlock with a sigh, “Remind me to top him next time. I don’t want to take any chances.”

“I’d rather you left me _entirely_ out of your future plans for sex.”

John snorted, “You humans. So anxious about a normal biolog-biolog-biolock…”

“Biological imperative. If you can’t quote Sherlock properly, then don’t bother to quote him at all.”

“You’re lashing out at me,” John said quietly, “I’m not the one you should be angry with.”

“Oh? And who is? My injured spouse? My idiot brother who dragged him into danger?”

“How about the ones who did this? You know, the ones they were hunting because the monsters raped, beat, and killed my sister?”

Mycroft halted with a scathing comment on the tip of his tongue and sighed, “Apologies.”

“Not needed,” John replied, raising his head and nuzzling Mycroft’s chin gently.

Mycroft pulled him into a tight embrace and John settled against him, staring forlornly over his shoulder at their sleeping husbands.

 

*I wanted to use the DDT spray gun from the TV show _Oddities_ , which looked almost like a space weapon, but I couldn’t find a pic! If anyone has it, please send it to me through VinnysAsgardian or on the corrections tag of my website. Ta!

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock looked over the list Mycroft had procured for him, complete with photos, CCTV captions on a memory stick, home life information, and even financial records.

“No connections,” Sherlock fumed, “Some are related, but of course they were, they were traveling home together! Nothing else!”

“There has to be something,” John replied softly, “You’ll find it. You always do.”

“Pass me the papers. I need to find more attacks so I can establish a pattern.”

“You think there will be more?” John asked, passing him the first paper.

“I think there will be _dozens_ ,” Sherlock replied with a growl, “Look how far from London this last one took place. They aren’t just in our backyard, John; they’re all over England! Perhaps even...”

Sherlock stopped speaking and John looked up from the London-based paper he’d been pouring over to find the man staring in shock.

“What is it?”

Sherlock turned the paper and revealed what appeared to be a harmless used-car lot advert. Until you looked close enough and saw the eye spray-painted onto the alley behind the gesturing salesman and his busty car model. John turned back to his paper and found but found another one almost immediately. John was soon sent into the hall to get tacks. Three hours later they had the Eye tacked on nearly every available surface in the room. There was an eye in nearly every picture in every single newspaper from every single major city in England. They were never on the front page, only on those behind it and sometimes only partially visible, but they were _there_.

“Oh gods,” A voice croaked out.

Lestrade was awake for the first time in two days and was staring in horror at the scene around him.

“We’ll catch them,” John soothed, hurrying forward to pet his hair gently, “They won’t hurt you again.”

Mycroft came back into the room then, depositing a final stack of papers on the table. He’d been having them shipped in but didn’t allow anyone besides himself, John, and the hospital staff into their room. When he glanced around the room he dismissed the newspapers in favor of rushing to Lestrade’s side and peppering his forehead with kisses.

“The Kidds?” Lestrade croaked out.

“Fine. I skyped them an hour ago. They miss us, _you_ especially. I could kill you for nearly dying on me.”

“Water,” Lestrade wheezed. Mycroft paged the desk and gave Lestrade a sip from a container nearby.

John gently tugged the curtains shut between the two beds and sat down on Sherlock’s to give them a moment of privacy. Sherlock held his hand gently, reaching out to stroke a hand along the thick fur on his legs. John’s eyes darkened with desire but he tamped it down. A moment later the nurses hurried in and the room was filled with chatter.

XXX

A wicked grin spread across Sherlock’s face and he resumed his petting of John’s leg. John scowled at him, but he was too easily aroused- and too afraid of hurting Sherlock- to push him away. At Sherlock’s whisper to do so John turned and presented Sherlock with his back. A gentle tug on his tail had him inching back. Sherlock reached around and untied his loincloth, grateful that John was wearing it today. He wrapped his hand around the half-hard cock he found and began to slowly fondle it into fullness. John let out a slow breath and shivered. He was well aware that Humans didn’t do public sex; Satyr’s really didn’t either, but there was no definitive taboo against it. Therefore Sherlock was more aroused by this sort of thing than John was, but it didn’t dim the always-horny Satyr’s usual lust for anything Sherlock Holmes.

John was soon leaking pre-come, his hips slowly rotating back and forth as Sherlock stroked him faster and faster. John put a hand over his mouth to hold back the sounds he was trying not to make. Sherlock’s arm was clearly becoming tired, so he wrapped a hand firmly around his and started moving at a faster pace. John was close, shaking with need, with his tail twitching eagerly and a drop of sweat dripping down his back. Sherlock scooped it up with a free finger and sampled the salty taste of his lover. Then he reached down and petted the tail with a firm grasp so that it tugged just a bit. John whimpered, not able to hold it back, and then came hot and hard across both their hands.

“If you two are through…” Mycroft scolded, scowling down at them.

“No, we’re not _through_ ,” Sherlock snapped while John panted and squirmed under his gaze, “ _You_ have a Satyr lover, you know how insatiable they are.”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft sighed, “Well, I’ll just be going down with Gregory while they run some more tests. Then they’d like some blood from you.”

“Will they settle for some other bodily fluid?” Sherlock taunted, giving his own aching cock a squeeze.

Mycroft gave him a disgusted look and stormed off while Sherlock resumed his pace on John’s cock. The man was easily brought off a second time and then turned over with a ravenous look on his face. He tugged the blankets down and Sherlock’s gown up. He wrapped his lips around his prick and then pinned his hips so he couldn’t buck up. Sherlock laid back in the bed, resting on the pillows and letting John’s scent and the feel of his mouth around his cock simply wash over him. John was humping the side of the bed, his hip bumping the rails loudly now that the room was empty.

“That’s going to bruise,” Sherlock panted.

“Mph!” John agreed, and slammed into it harder, apparently looking to have something to remember this by.

“You’re sexy when you’re wild,” Sherlock panted.

John grunted and came against the bed. Sherlock moaned as he spilled himself into his beloved’s mouth, his vision whiting out as he gasped for air. When John finally popped off of his cock it was to give him a lazy, happy smile.

“Bedsheets,” Sherlock smirked.

“Hm? Oh, shit!” John hurried to stand and scrambled to change the sheets, stuffing the old ones into the laundry bin. He forgot to dress until afterwards, so Sherlock enjoyed the sight of his sated cock flopping about.

“I so rarely see you like that,” Sherlock grinned.

“What, naked?”

“Limp.”

John laughed and grabbed his dick, waving it at him tauntingly, “You should be proud of that, you wanker.”

“Wanker?!” Sherlock laughed, “Who teaches you such pedestrian terms?”

“Your clients,” John laughed, flopping himself down in a chair and tying his loincloth back up.

Sherlock puffed on some oxygen just to help himself recover and then hung it back up. He wasn’t coughing up blood anymore, but he doubted he could jog a few steps without passing out. He would be getting another scan shortly. In fact…

John stood up and hurried to pull the curtains back as Lestrade was wheeled back in.

“Well? Better?” John asked.

“Medicine doesn’t work quite that fast, John,” Mycroft soothed, “Though I’m sure it seems like it compared to the methods of your people.”

Mycroft ignored John’s scowl while Sherlock tried not to snicker. Lestrade was carefully shifting on the bed and looking downright miserable.

“I want my Kidds. I’ve got so much damn milk in my tits it’s killing me. I bet the hotel through out the stuff I pumped for them. Damn it all.”

“I collected your things,” Mycroft replied, “Including the milk. I sent it to the Kidds in a cooler. The milk you currently have in you will probably need to be dumped, though. Radiation.”

“Damn,” Lestrade grunted, “I’ll probably dry up even more from all the time I spent not pumping. They didn’t pump me at _all_ while I was out?”

“Just once yesterday when you started leaking. We tossed that, too. All the toxins…”

“Damn it!” Lestrade slammed his hand down on the rail of his bed in frustration, “My Kidds need my milk! I’m barely making any as it is!”

“They’ll be fine, Gregory,” Mycroft soothed, “Some children aren’t even nursed at all!”

“We need to find a wet nurse,” Lestrade insisted, “I want them breastfed. At least Adrastos, that could give him the advantage he needs.”

“I’ll look into it. I assume you want Satyr?”

“If possible,” Lestrade replied, “I don’t think Humans do wet nursing anymore.”

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded, but gave Sherlock a disgusted eye-roll once Lestrade looked away.

Sherlock smiled, but he was too busy fantasizing about John nursing their Kidds. He’d seen Lestrade do it, but the image didn’t interest him the way his beloved feeding their offspring did. He smiled at John’s wistful expression and knew he was thinking the same thing. Sadly, the nurses showed up to wheel Sherlock down for his scan.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was released a few days later and they hurried home. Lestrade’s Kidds had been visiting nearly daily once he’d regained conciousness, so John and Sherlock were on edge and eager to get away. Three Kidds who weren’t their own weren’t fun with Sherlock bored and one of the parents of the Kidds ill.  Sherlock got home and glanced outside to see that their Eye had been refreshed, in fact someone had painted over the other graffiti and was in the process of refreshing their Eye _right at that moment._

Sherlock opened his mouth to shout to John only to see him bolting fast across the street and towards the man, who ducked down and ran.

 _Damn!_ _I was so busy in my own head I didn’t notice he hadn’t followed me upstairs!_

Sherlock turned and hurried downstairs, but by the time he got to the other side of the street John and the vandalizer were gone. Sherlock hurried after the general direction of their mad dash, but the clues became less and less frequent the farther he followed them. There were simply too many people walking around. Eventually Sherlock came to a busy intersection and there was nothing. No sign that John or the hooded man he’d been chasing even passed _by_ , let alone through. Sherlock crossed the street and hurriedly examined several of the alleys and shops, but nothing looked promising.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and called John. It went straight to voicemail. He hung up and paced the area again, backtracking some, but still found nothing. The area was too altered by all the trampling feet and humming cars. He called John’s mobile again.

 _“Hello sexy,”_ John’s voice sounded breathless, but Sherlock detected no hint of pain.

“Where are you?”

A slight hesitation, “ _You weren’t supposed to see that.”_

“See what?”

_“My agent.”_

“Your what?”

 _“He’ll have to pay for this_.”

The call ended and another ring produced the voicemail once more. Frustrated he turned and caught sight of a homeless Doe on the street corner. On a whim he jotted down his need on a piece of paper:

_Need info on Eye graffiti and Satyr by the name of Djawn Watson-Holmes, blonde, late-twenties- possibly in danger. Will pay double. Meet me at Baker Street with info, leave with Mrs. Holmes and request payment from same if I am not available._

Sherlock wrapped several notes around it. He dropped it into her basket and hurried past, ignoring her pleased thanks, and then he hurried into an alley where it would be quieter and phoned Mycroft.  
  
*Image is from the end of "Blind Baker" S1 E3 of Sherlock BBC


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade was home, his ribs bandaged and his Kidds warned to be very gentle with their daddy. They were a bit too young to understand that concept, so the nanny was hovering about making sure they didn’t kick his ribs. Lestrade could barely keep his hands off of them, clutching them tightly whenever he could manage to catch them. He wasn’t surprised that John and Sherlock had headed home. The two were frantic to lay hands on each other. Frankly, Lestrade was jealous. First his difficult triple birth had left him utterly disinterested in sex, and now he was injured in the one place that would most likely stop him from having sex for a _while_. It had been so long since he’d been intimate with Mycroft that he barely recalled what it felt like to bury himself inside his gorgeous lover.

The door burst open and Lestrade jumped before hissing in pain. Sherlock was, as usual, unaware that he’d caused that pain.

“I found the connection. The connection to the murders on the tube and Harry Watson.”

“Great, that’s great. How about you pass me that bottle of pills up on the top of the dresser there? Thanks. So what’s the connection?”

“John.”

“John? I thought you were going to say _you_.”

“No,” Sherlock sighed, dropping down into the chair across from him, “No. It’s John.”

“Where is the hoofed wonder, anyway? Doesn’t he usually keep you from bursting into people’s homes and…”

“Gone.”

“Sorry?”

“For two days now. He’s gone.”

“He… he _left_?”

Sherlock was out of his chair, pacing the room once more, and Lestrade rang the bell for the servants. He kissed each of the kids and sent them off with the nanny.

“Okay. Start at the beginning.”

“I caught someone outside our flat, painting one of those eyes. I was about to go after him when John beat me to it. I tried to follow, but they had a considerable head start. Then I got John on his mobile.”

Sherlock repeated the conversation, word for word, and then sank back down into the chair and ran his fingers through his hair.

“The link on the tube was his eldest half-sibling.”

“Shit,” Lestrade breathed, “John saw the footage. Was his brother…?”

“Yes.”

“Could he have not recognized him?”

“They don’t look much alike. It’s apparently been years,” Sherlock shrugged helplessly. The problem was, he wasn’t used to being helpless. Not anymore.

“Did the brother survive?”

“No. One of the few Satyr victims.”

“Anyone else on the tube?”

“Not that I’ve found. Just finding out he was related to John was difficult. They haven’t had ties for a long time. The DNA test coming back was what showed the connection. John’s in the system because they keep track of people who leave the reservation. Probably the only way they can besides finger printing, they’re so closed up in there, so very little information goes in or out.”

“What was he doing _off_ the reservation in the first place?”

“He has a job. Architect. As far as I know, it’s completely innocent. No sign of illegal activities. What I deduced from the video footage showed him to be a loving father and devoted husband, married for nearly ten years, with a large family and some small debts. No reason to be targeted.”

Sherlock was shifting in his chair, feet working as if ready to jump up and run.

“You think he’s turned on you. You think he’s some criminal and you just… what? Missed it? This whole time? No.”

“Ockhams Razor,” Sherlock replied, voice cracking.

“No,” Lestrade repeated.

“It was his voice. He didn’t sound coerced.”

“No.”

“He’s gone. Left of his own free will.”

“ _No_.”

“The body of the man he was chasing turned up yesterday morning. Tortured. Poisoned with snake venom. Sound familiar?”

“Damn it, Sherlock! No!” Lestrade slammed his fist down on the side table and then hissed in pain again, “No, Sherlock. Not possible. John _loves_ you.”

“Loving me, which I’m not doubting by the way, wouldn’t stop him from systematically killing of members of his family. What about his mother? Heart attack? I need to have her body exhumed.”

“Satyr burn their dead on a pyre. Good luck with that.”

“Damn.”

Sherlock stood up and paced once again.

“So what’s his goal? Why kill them off?”

“How the hell should I know?! I didn’t even see this _coming!_ Madness? Perhaps they’ve all contacted him and are demanding he leave me? Perhaps they have the life he wants? Children? Money? Well… not Harry, but she was being a pain.”

“Really, Sherlock? Jealousy? Are you so childish that’s all you can think of?”

“What else?!” Sherlock demanded, rounding on him, “Don’t tell me he’s mad, Lestrade. Don’t tell me he’s…”

“What? Organized? You yourself said this situation extends to the _entire of London_. This is beyond a _mob_ , Sherlock. It’s an…”

“Don’t say it!” Sherlock rounded on him again, “Don’t! John is not… he can’t be… he isn’t…”

“No. He’s not. Because it’s not John. Someone is pulling his strings. Making him dance.”

“A spider at the center of the web? Tweaking the threads?” Sherlock laughed, high and hysterical, “Some inconceivably brilliant person making me dance? Making us all dance?”

“It makes more sense than _John Watson-Holmes_ being a genius crime boss!”

Sherlock sat down in his chair, laughing as if he’d just heard the best joke of his life. Lestrade waited. Waited a few minutes more. And then levered himself to his feet and tugged Sherlock’s head to his stomach when the laughter inevitably turned into sobs. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Lestrade’s waist, bumping his tail un intentionally, and gripped him tightly when that familiar feel comforted him. Lestrade ignored him stroking the bump through his pants, knowing it wasn’t what it felt like. He petted his curls and let him rub his tears and snot off on his clothes.

“Hush, love, shhhhhh. It isn’t John. It can’t be John. We’ll find him and he’ll be in your arms where he belongs in no time. Hush. It’s okay.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

It was a nightmare. Sherlock had barely been making his name at the Yard, but now ‘John’ was forcing them to acknowledge him. The first victim asked for him by name, sobbing brokenly into the phone until they brought Sherlock in.

“Hello… sexy…” She sobbed once Sherlock announced his presence in the room, “Are you ready to play a game? I know how you hate to be _…_ bored.”

“Who is this?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“Your… beloved,” The woman’s tone was confused, but the message clear.

“You don’t sound like John.”

“You don’t know me as well as you think, Sherlock,” The woman choked out, “But we’re two of a kind, you and I.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” The woman sobbed, “I’m typing and this stupid… bitch… is reading it out.”

“Why is the woman crying?”

“You haven’t figure that out yet? Don’t disappoint me, Sherlock. I do terrible things when I’m bored. Remember... I have my eye on you.”

The call disconnected and Sherlock’s mobile went off. He picked it up and stared in shock down at the screen.

“I know that place,” Sherlock stated.

“Where is it?” Lestrade asked, standing carefully.

“Baker Street.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

221C was barren with the exception of a used condom in the middle of the sitting room. Sherlock knelt down and studied it.

“My preferred brand,” Sherlock muttered, “But I never used them with John.”

“From your experiments?”

“Possibly.”

“Whom did you sleep with who could want to do this?” Lestrade asked.

“No idea. They were all University students.”

They were both very carefully not mentioning John, who would have a reason to be jealous of the men and woman Sherlock had experimented with.

“We’ll take this back to the lab and have the contents analyzed.”

Sherlock nodded and inspected the rest of the room. He found hairs, but he didn’t need the lab to know that they were John’s. He watched Anderson slip them into a bag, his tone oddly subdued. Apparently he was being given some space due to his lover’s evident homicidal tendencies. Sherlock inspected the rest of the rooms, but they were all undisturbed. Once out into the world once more he headed to the lab with a swab from the condom to do his own tests.

Of course, his tests came back faster and he was left staring at the computer in complete confusion.

“Well?” Lestrade asked, stepping up to him with a worried look.

“It’s mine.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s _my_ semen.”

“In your preferred condom,” Lestrade deadpanned.

“It’s highly degraded,” Sherlock replied with a sigh, “It appears to have been kept frozen for a period of time.”

“Bit sick, that.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged. He had some semen frozen in a container at home at the moment, but it wasn’t his and it was for experimental purposes. In fact, it was John’s semen, but that was only because it was readily available in large quantities.

“So what does this tell us?” Lestrade asked.

“That I need to go back to my alma mater and look for another clue. Doubtless I’ll find something there. Possibly even in my own former dorm room.”

XXXXXXXXX

Lestrade wasn’t fit for travel, or so Mycroft insisted, so he headed out to Sherlock’s former university with Sgt Donovan and Anderson. Luckily they took two vehicles because Sherlock was ready to strangle the shy flirts before they even left NSY.

“Oh, just sleep together already!” Sherlock shouted at them as they argued over who should open the door for whom.

The ride ended with them arguing with the Dean for nearly an hour before he allowed them access to the rooms since they had no warrant. Finally they were admitted when Sherlock bullied the current dorm-mates into letting him enter. Sherlock scoured the room, which was just as full of filth and illegal substances as when he’d been there, and then scoured it again.

“Wrong. There’s nothing here,” Sherlock scoffed angrily, turning to leave.

“Where next? Find your last flings?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t even recall who they were!” Sherlock snapped, turning on his brother in a tiff, “I don’t even recall _how many_! I’ve deleted it all!”

“Sherlock?” A voice spoke behind him, “Sherlock Holmes?” 

Sherlock whirled on the intruder, who smiled shyly and shifted from foot to foot. He was a whiplash thin Irish man with black eyes and styled hair. He was attractive in a sweet sort of way, especially when he blushed. He was no John, though, and Sherlock dismissed him as easily as he looked at him.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to conceal the annoyance in his voice.

“It’s Jim. We… well… we sort of…” The man blushed furiously, “Went out once?”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, “Yes. Of course. How could I forget? Jim. What… how… That is…”

Mycroft stepped around Sherlock’s stuttering self and stuck his hand out, “Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s elder brother. How do you do?”

“Oh, ummm, that’s… Hello,” Jim stammered, giving Mycroft a limp-wristed handshake, “Your brother is quite the… male specimen…”

“So the doctors who delivered him assured my mother,” Mycroft replied scathingly.

Sherlock smirked.

“Well… does this mean you’re coming back to school?” Jim asked, looking around him at Sherlock again.

“Not if my life depended on it,” Sherlock replied with a cheerful grin.

“Well, maybe you’d like to get coffee…” Jim tried.

“Not really,” Sherlock scoffed, brushing past him dismissively.

“Not him?” Mycroft wondered, “Are you sure?”

“A shy homosexual with aspirations to be a _teacher_?” Sherlock growled, “Not him.”

XXXXXXX

Sherlock and Mycroft went out to the reservation after that, seeking out the remainder of John’s family. He’d said they lived on the other side of the reservation, but one brother had been out and living in the world for quite some time. They checked with John’s home village first, the people there cheerful and affectionate once they recognized Sherlock. Agaat was Sherlock’s first stop. He trusted her.

“ **Djawn’s family are divided. Like a crack in the earth. There is great illness there. I had long hoped that one of the gods would intervene, but sometimes our pains are too trivial for them.** ” Agaat explained as she ground a root in a bowl.

 **“Would you force the issue?”** Mycroft asked, **“Would you act in the stead of the gods?”**

Agaat let out a cackling laughter, and grabbed a handful of herbs to flick at Mycroft, showering him as if they were confetti. Mycoft sneezed, waving his hand in the air as the fragrant scent filled the already aromatic wigwam. He gave her an insulted look, but she just chuckled and went back to her grinding, her hoof tapping against a stone in a rhythmic beat that took a loop after a full minute. Sherlock followed it, mesmerized at the nuances she could put into something with _just_ her hoof.

Mycroft cleared his throat, “ **That is _not_ an answer.”**

**“Do I look like a god to you?”**

**“I’m sure I wouldn’t know a ‘god’ if I saw one,”** Mycroft replied sarcastically.

 **“I’m sure you wouldn’t,”** Agaat chuckled, “ **The people you look for are not all here. The twins have left the reservation. One is dead, yes?”**

“ **Yes,** ” Sherlock replied with a nod.

 **“The other two have remained here,”** Agaat continued, pulling out a dusty roll of parchment and unrolling it. It was a map, “ **You will find the youngest boy here… and the middle son here. The other twin does not know his brother was killed. Their connection is not healthy. He will feel sick, but he will not sense the death.”**

Agaat marked both locations with a crude device similar to a pencil. They were in two separate locations on the reservation. The three brothers had been spread out as far as they possibly could from each other.

“ **Are you saying** ,” Sherlock questioned, “ **That John’s other siblings aren’t close to each other either? Not even the twins?”**

 **“Sickness. They are all filled with sickness. Djawn was becoming more and more ill,”** Agaat leaned across the map they were kneeling over and patted Sherlock’s cheek, “ **Until you came along.”**

Agaat stood up, leaving the map in their care and wandered across the room, humming to herself. She scooped up a bundle of flowers and brought them over to the two Men. She pulled one out and tucked the long stem into Sherlock’s lapel. When she tried to repeat that with Mycroft he snatched up her wrist angrily.

“We haven’t got time for this!” Mycroft hissed at Sherlock.

“Just humor her,” Sherlock sighed.

“Yes, humor the old Nanny,” Agaat laughed as she interrupted them. In English. Very well spoken English with a rather attractive Greek accent rather than an intolerable one.

“I was under the impression that Nanny, other than used in regards to the care of children, was an insulting turn of phrase.”

Agaat cackled again in response, then slipped the flower through Mycroft’s lapel, “You two stay close. It will keep you from becoming sick as well. Stay _very_ close. The way brothers should. You will sleep together, piss together, and take your Husbands together. Until the Evil Eye is gone.”

“We’re not _that_ close,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Just to be clear, we aren’t advocating incest, are we?” Mycroft asked in disgust.

Agaat gave Mycroft a repulsed look, rolled up his map, and handed it to Sherlock, “Keep him _close_.”

Sherlock nodded, turned sharply, and hurried out of the wigwam to breathe in the fresh air. His eyes followed the Satyr men and women. They walked close together, hands or arms clasped. Even the children were filled with casual caresses and playful affection. Sherlock watched as they jumped, skipped, and ran from one side of the village to another. Men had no fear of being affectionate with each other here; there was no machismo. The men could put their arms around their friends and press their lips together in a chaste show of affection. No jealousy, no questioning if they were manly enough, and also no lewd displays in front of the children. It was beautiful, but Sherlock felt distinctly panicked by the way people here interacted with such ease and open tenderness. Feeling his chest clench, Sherlock bolted off into the woods behind Agaat’s wigwam. He ignored his brother’s shouts, doubling over and being spectacularly sick after a few paces.

“If you’re ill…”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock coughed.

“If you’re _taking_ something…” Mycroft replied, his tone going icy.

“I am clean!” Sherlock shouted, “I’m just… human.”

Mycroft snorted, “Mother would be shocked to hear that.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Sherlock asked, standing and accepting a piece of gum Mycroft held out to him.

“What doesn’t bother me?”

“The… _touching!”_

“I have never been as disturbed by physical affection as you have,” Mycroft replied, “How you attracted a Satyr is beyond me.”

“He unintentionally raped me, remember?” Sherlock grinned wryly.

“Mm, yes. I also remember you going on a sex binge afterwards.”

“Well I…” Sherlock paused, his mind racing, “Damn! Damn it! Damn it all to hell!”

“What now?” Mycroft asked.

“DJawn- I mean John- his family! Agaat said they were _sick_ , that there was a _rift_ between them.”

“Yes?”

“What is the _one thing_ that is considered truly damaging in Satyr culture?”

“Murder?”

“And rape! Consent is fuzzy during Heat or Rut, but they’re _adamant_ about it not being anything but agreeable outside of it. That’s why they’re so touchy-feely. They blur the lines of most other kinds of contact, share a bed between siblings of either gender, and let their children roam into other Satyr’s tents.”

“That sounds unsafe,” Mycroft frowned.

“To _us_ , of course! Except the rate of both rape and paedophilia is extremely low in Satyr culture. Why is that?”

“No idea.”

“Because they _vet_ their potential mates. They move in with the family, learn who they are, and everyone being so close means if someone is mentally unstable then _everyone_ knows. They kick them out if they’re abusive even once. They even have a death penalty, and not just for murder. For abusing children. For rape. For…”

“Then what happened? If abuse is impossible…”

“Not impossible, nothing is impossible, but it is _improbable_. John’s second father was older; it’s entirely possible he was a child during the times when Satyr’s were slaves. Entirely possible that he was abused in some way during that time. If that were the case then he might not have grown up with Satyr values, he might not _fit in_.”

“You believe he abused his children.”

“It’s possible, but in addition I believe he raised his children and stepchildren outside the norm. I believe he didn’t behave the way Satyr’s _normally_ behave, and it scared everyone. Including his stepchildren. They left and spread out, separating themselves from the cause of their abnormality in an attempt to become more like the people they were raised as. The older twins were more pragmatic; they left the reservation and headed for Human life where they’d fit in more culturally. The younger two spread out and got new lives, but John… John stayed here with his mother while Harry wandered into drug addiction. John was the only one who did it the _right_ way. He stuck it out and weathered the storm, proved that he was a good son, that he could conform to Satyr values, but…”

Sherlock stopped, turning to face Mycroft with a devastated look on his face.

“It is John. The Evil Eye Murderer.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, “He still couldn’t get anyone. He still couldn’t fit in. He tried to be a warrior when all he wanted was to be a healer. He wanted a man to top, but he was stuck as a bottom only during Ruts when other males were unable to resist him. Finally he ends up with a _Human_ , who can’t bear his children. He’s stuck bottoming again.”

“More than I needed to know…”

“Not only that, his ability to conform- to camouflage himself- proves that he’s far more intelligent than I ever gave him credit for. He learned a third language easily, but I dismissed it because I’ve learned many more quickly. That just makes me a polyglot, geniuses have been restricted to two or even one language in the past, that didn’t change the fact that their IQ was high.”

“You make it sound as if you _pushed_ him to kill.”

“I did,” Sherlock replied, “I gave my attention to criminals instead of him. He had to become one to catch my eye. That’s what the Eye is all about, it wasn’t a warning or threat that someone was watching me.”

“It was John saying ‘look at me’.”

“Observe me, don’t just see me,” Sherlock sighed, leaning back against a tree and rubbing his hands over his face, “I have to get him out of this. I have to find him before the police. Before anyone else. I have to stop him.”

“And do what? Heal him?”

“He healed me!” Sherlock shouted at Mycroft, “And he healed you and Lestrade as well! Don’t you see?! He was meant to be a healer, not a killer!”

“You think he poisoned all the people in…”

“That’s not what I meant! No!” Sherlock paced frantically and then faced Mycroft again, “Yes. Quite likely.”

“So now what?” Mycroft growled, “We find him and do what? Strap him to a chair and tell him how smart he is?”

“Therapy. If that doesn’t work I’ll think of something else. Perhaps an ankle monitor.”

“For gods sake,” Mycroft huffed, “Very well. Let’s go. Does this ludicrous theory of yours include visiting the brothers we now know the location of?”

“I think he’ll target the other one outside the reservation first. They’re closer to us and display the aberration that he’s learned to hide. He’ll want to destroy them. Perhaps the victim is one of the twins’ wives.”

“Perhaps, but we’re here now, and you aren’t exactly thinking clearly, Sherlock. These leaps are far from logical. Let’s do the research you’re always scolding me for avoiding. Let’s interview the brothers.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration, “ _Fine_.”

XXXXXXXXXX

They were just leaving the middle half-brother’s home when Mycroft finally got enough reception for his boosted phone to pick up a signal. What awaited him were twenty text messages from his Husband.

“Sherlock, we have to go. You were right about the other twin. His wife was just found dead. An Eye painted in blood nearby.”

“Cause of death?”

“A bomb was detonated while strapped to her body. She was in her car outside of a mall. Three other casualties and a lot of property damage.”

“Where was the Eye?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft paged through his messages until he found a picture and showed it to Sherlock. The scene was a disaster, as bombings often were. The car was blown out in the front where the woman was sitting in the front seat. On the ground behind the car, outside of the blast radius, was an Eye painted in blood. At least a pint of it.

“Whose blood? Not the victims.”

“No. John’s.”

“Then this is on the record now.”

“I’m afraid so.”


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft was tired. Sherlock’s Husband was wanted for murder and terrorism and Mycroft was _tired_. Sherlock’s Husband, best friend, and reason for living a sober life was possibly in some sort of horrid danger and _Mycroft was_ _tired_. So they had made their way to the long house in Djawn’s middle brother’s village and Mycroft collapsed on a straw mat and began to snore. The mat was large enough for three, but Sherlock was pacing the room instead of joining his brother, as the Satyr community would have expected them to. Finally another occupant of the longhouse hissed that he was making too much noise and he stalked out of the building.

Sherlock decided that interviewing the brother wasn’t going to wait until morning, so he stomped to the man’s wigwam and scratched at the edging. He was ignored- or perhaps not noticed- so he barged into their living area. Unlike John’s wigwam, this one had multiple rooms to it in order to give the occupants privacy since the adults were sexually active. The children lived in the dome room to the left and the parents in one to the right. Sherlock stormed through into the parents room in time to see John’s brother scramble off of his wife and swear at Sherlock in shock.

“ **Do you _mind_?”**

**“Not at all** ,” Sherlock replied, “ **I’m looking for Geraat.”**

**“You found him,”** The Buck replied, standing up. His erect cock bounced and the sweat gleamed off of his body. There was no shame in his actions, no recoiling from Sherlock’s line of sight, no hesitance to step forward and into Sherlock’s personal space. He was, at least, kind enough to keep his hips turned so his erection didn’t prod the consulting detective in the hip.

“ **Geraat, I understand you’re Djawn Watson’s half brother.”**

**“Did something happen to him?”**

Sherlock frowned, looking away as if he had bad news, but carefully watching the Bucks reaction out of the corner of his eye. He watched the man force a concerned look onto his face, but it was quite pinched and clearly insincere.

“ **I’m his Husband.”**

“ **Oh,** ” Geraat replied, looking shocked, **“I… is he here?”**

**“No. He wished he could be, but he’s very heavy with child so travel was out of the question.”**

**“Well that’s… congratulations! That’s amazing. I never thought he’d find someone.”**

**“Yes, well, he’s still working on his temper.”**

**“Temper?”** Geraat asked, his erection finally diminished. His wife was sitting up and staring at them in confusion. Judging by her expression she hadn’t heard of Djawn.

**“You know. The way he was always throwing things around.”**

**“I never knew him to be like that!”** Geraat exclaimed, looking genuinely shocked, **“He was always so quiet, but I did leave when he was young. We met only a few times after that.”**

**“Well, he did mention that you were his favorite brother.”**

Geraat laughed out loud, “ **Me? Djawn’s favorite? He must have misspoken. He barely noticed us. The age gap, you know.”**

**“I was under the impression that Satyr’s didn’t care much about age gaps with siblings. That they were all so very close.”**

Geraat’s mask fell and beneath it was a cold vissage, “ **You’re questioning me. And you’re damn sneaky about it, too. Who are you and what do you want?”**

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Mycroft woke up with a start, a twisting feeling in his gut. Something was wrong. Something was _horribly_ wrong.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called, standing and feeling the twist in his gut clench tighter.

Sherlock was gone.

Mycroft bolted, scrambling down the stairs of the longhouse in naught but his boxers and a vest, shouting for his brother in terror. Sherlock was somewhere, and he had to find him _fast._ Time was running out. He was certain. If he didn’t hurry his brother would _die._

Into the darkened woods Mycroft ran, his blood pounding in his ears and shouts following after him. People were echoing his cries, concern in their voices. They knew something was wrong as well, but had no idea who or what he was looking for. They’d arrived late at night, only a few had seen them arrive, yet the instant a panicked voice had raised those around had rushed to assist. Now they just had to find his brother before it was too late!

Sticks and briar bushes lashed out at Mycroft, striking his face and snagging at his skin and clothes. His bare feet were torn and abused. Tears were running down his face and his throat was ragged as he screamed for his brother. An owl hooted overhead and, inexplicably, Mycroft stopped. He looked up and the pure white bird stared down at him for a moment before flying off to his right. Mycroft followed, gasping for breath as he followed the blur catching the moonlight in front of him.

Mycroft instinctively sucked in a breath when his feet hit cold water, floundering in the rushing water that was quickly up to his waist. The owl circled an area above the water and Mycroft headed towards that spot, not noticing what became of the bird after that point. He was up to his shoulders in rushing water, being lifted off his feet, fearing washing away at any moment, when he floundered into _something_ in the water.

Mycroft grabbed and pulled, his feet pressed into the soft grit beneath his feet as he levered his brother up to the surface. Sherlock gasped for breath, but Mycroft couldn’t hold him and he sunk beneath the water once more.

“ **Help! Help! Drowning! The river!”** Mycroft shouted over and again, repeatedly hauling Sherlock upwards.

He heard the village people approaching, light from lanterns dancing in the distance, but Mycroft feared they’d be too late. Finally, he hauled Sherlock up and didn’t hear a gasp of breath. The darkness might have been playing tricks on him, but he was certain the man was limp. He pulled him up higher this time, tugging Sherlock against himself and trying to drap him over his body. The weight that was keeping him beneath the water slammed into Mycroft’s foot, pinning him down as well, and Sherlock went down once more.

Mycroft pulled him up and slung him over his shoulder properly this time, the boulder tied to his knees dragged them to the side and Mycroft staggered… into a firm shoulder. A series of loud bleets and grunts echoed in the room and Mycroft recognized it as Satyrese, the language his children spoke with their father. Countless hands took hold of him and Mycroft felt himself and Sherlock pulled to shore. He tried to get to his brother, but he was held back, gripped in arms that refused to release him no matter how he screamed, threatened, and sobbed. He couldn’t see Sherlock through the group of people surrounding him, but they had apparently been resuscitating him because they stepped back as one and Sherlock lay there coughing and spitting up water.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock wheezed.

“You insufferable…” Mycroft started, and then fainted away.

XXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft woke up with Sherlock sleeping beside him, looking like the small child Mycroft still recalled. For a moment he just watched him breathe and told himself not to cry like a fool. Then a movement caught his eye and he sat up to find Agaat sitting by the central fire in the longhouse. Mycroft stood slowly and made his way over to her, noting that he and Sherlock had been re-dressed in warm, robe-like clothes.

“You look silly in that,” Agaat chuckled, “Old men wear that fashion.”

“I feel old. Everything hurts,” Mycroft sighed, sitting down on the bench beside her, “Why didn’t you warn me that Djawn’s brother was a murderer?”

“I did tell you to stay _close_ , did I not?”

“Yes, but that’s quite a bit different than ‘Djawn’s brother is a murderer’.”

“You assume too much,” Agaat sighed, rubbing her hands and holding them out to the fire, “What makes you think the brother was the one who tied Sherlock to a rock and tossed him in the river?”

“Who else?”

“Who indeed?”

“What do you know, old woman?” Mycroft growled angrily.

“Old woman?! Oh, I like that,” She grumbled angrily, “After all I’ve done for you boys.”

“What. Do. You. Know?”

“More than you could ever hope to in a lifetime,” Agaat replied coldly, giving him a look that chilled him to the bone, “More than you could _handle_ knowing.”

“I believe you,” Mycroft replied, “Help us?”

“I have. I will. Look for me in places you would not expect me.”

“I think I already do,” Mycroft replied.

Agaat smiled, standing and patting his cheek tenderly, “You need to eat more. You’re too thin.”

Mycroft snorted, “I think you’ve mistaken me for my brother in this dim lighting.”

“Have I? Perhaps that is because you two are closer than you were before.”

Agaat made her way towards the longhouse stairs and moved down them with the grace of a much younger Doe. Mycroft sighed and went back to the straw mat to curl up with his arm draped around his brother. Sherlock stirred and rolled towards him, whimpering in his sleep.

“John,” Sherlock sobbed, pressing his face to Mycroft’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, brother,” Mycroft comforted, “We’ll find him.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Not the brother?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt he was in on it, but someone else hit me from behind. The big issue is that he saw through me right before I was knocked unconscious, and now he and his wife have vanished. What happened to their Kidds?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft blinked, “Why?”

“Because they’re John’s nieces and nephews.”

“You’re joking,” Mycroft laughed, “I thought perhaps you were trying to gauge the chances they’d return!”

Sherlock blushed, but stood his ground on the issue, “Likely they’re unconcerned given Satyr culture insists they be taken care of by their closest family no matter the circumstances. Their return can’t be guaranteed by the location of their offspring. However, John may be concerned about his nieces and nephews. So. Their status?”

“They’ve been placed in the care of their mother’s sister.”

“Have guards placed on them.”

“What, really?” Mycroft laughed, “You’re serious!”

“Yes! Mycroft, three people immediately related to John are dead. He’ll be devastated if his family is destroyed. We need a guard on the children, and on his remaining sibling. We’ll need to get to him today and question him. If he’s involved as well we’ll get Donovan over here to arrest him.”

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed, and headed out to pace until he found a signal to make the calls needed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade got the second call while Mycroft was out of mobile range. A man, voice shaking with traffic in the background demanding that Sherlock be brought home from the reservation in three hours. Panicked, Lestrade called over and again until he reached his Husband, who called in a helicopter to get them back. They still barely made it in time. Sherlock all but ran into the room with an hour to spare, snatched the phone from Lestrade’s hand, and pressed it to his ear.

“Yes, I’m here. I’m here,” He panted, “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“I like it when you’re breathless, Sherlock.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who it is. It’s all right that you’ve gone to the police, but don’t rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Geraat. I never liked him. Slitting his throat was a p-p-pleasure.”

“And you’ve stolen another voice, I presume,” Sherlock replied.

“This is about you and me.”

“Who are you? I refuse to believe you’re John. The kind soul I knew would _never_ do this.”

“You weren’t convinced of that on the Reservation,” The stolen voice sobbed into the phone, a chill going up Sherlock’s spine as he realized how closely they’d been watched, “But don’t worry, I can soon clear all this up. Last time I left you a clue. This time I’ll leave you with a puzzle. The clock is still ticking from the original eight hours.”

Sherlock’s mobile went off at the same time the call disconnected and he checked it to find a picture of an abandoned car.

“License plate is visible. Check it,” Sherlock insisted, showing it to Lestrade before collapsing into a chair.

Mycroft came in a few minutes later, not having bothered to run to get to the phone in time, and gave Sherlock a worried look. Sherlock filled him in while Lestrade checked their data banks.

“It’s a rental car. We got it!” Lestrade announced, hope in his voice.

The car had been left at Heathrow airport, abandoned by those who had rented it out. The name was a fake, but a quick check of the CCTV network revealed a dappled Satyr behind the wheel along with a spouse, and a small hand waving about from the back gave the impression of at least one Kidd. Sherlock examined the vehicle while Anderson collected evidence and Lestrade interviewed those around the perimeter. Donovan had gone into the terminal to find out more about the outgoing flights.

“They boarded a plane,” Donovan stated, heading over to them, “It left six minutes before I got to the counter. I tried to get them to call them back, but they told me they need a reason.

“Thank you, Sally,” Sherlock snarked, “If ever I wish to have the obvious stated in dulcet tones I’ll be sure to call you in.”

“They might not have gotten on the plane,” She frowned, “It might have been a red herring. Satyr don’t usually take planes.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Of course they do! Where do you get such utter _lark_?”

“Statistically they take them less often, but that’s probably because they don’t make up as much of the population,” Lestrade supplied, “Individually they aren’t less likely to use a plane than Humans.”

“Oh,” Sally replied, looking embarrassed.

“Where was the plane _going_?” Sherlock demanded.

“Switzerland,” Donovan stated.

“He’s expanding. He isn’t just going to take out John’s brother and the spouse this time. He’s going to kill the Kidds as well,” Sherlock worried his bottom lip.

“I thought you were resolved that this _was_ John,” Mycroft pointed out.

“I _can’t_ leave out the possibility it might not be. Not now. He’s never answered me directly when questioned about identity. If it were John he’d have no reason not to.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Let’s get in there,” Lestrade stated, “I’ve gotten the okay from my superior to alert the flight. Not hard after the last one of these ended in a…”

He cut himself off. No way was he going to say ‘bomb’ in a parking lot full of potential plane passengers. They hurried through the terminal, Lestrade’s warrant card taking them quickly through security and to the person in charge that day. It was no easy task to call a plane back, but they were soon informed the one containing John’s second eldest twin brother and his family had been ordered to turn around.

“They’re fleeing,” Sherlock muttered, “Why?”

“Possibly because they’re being hunted?” Mycroft suggested sardonically.

“The plane has been re-directed to Southend since it was close to there,” Lestrade stated, “We’ll have to drive over.”

“Have they found the bomb, yet?” Sherlock demanded after an hour of pacing while the plane circled the channel.

“They searched but didn’t find one,” The supervisor explained to them, “That’s why they’ve been told to land. It might be some other form of sabotage.”

Sherlock was grinding his teeth in frustration, “There is _something_ on that _plane_. You being unable to find it only makes it _hidden_.”

A text came through Sherlock’s phone and he stared down to it in horror.

**BOOM! BOOM!! Dear me, Mr. Holmes, Dear me!**

“We can only do so mu…” The man was cut off by a report coming in.

The plane in question, Jumbo Jet 007, had crashed into Southend airport and gone up in a ball of flames. Casualties unknown.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

They’d attempted to evacuate the airport in time when they realized the plane wasn’t responding to demands it alter it’s course, but as it was the casualty list was going to be high.

“It’s out of our hands,” Lestrade sighed, “They’ll be taking it to a higher authority now. Terrorism and all.”

“I’d rather you were at home with the Kidds,” Mycroft stated, “Go there.”

“Myc,” Lestrade sighed, “Just because I’m off this case doesn’t mean I can stop working and…”

“Go. Home.” Mycroft ordered firmly.

Lestrade studied his expression for a moment, then nodded and contacted his supervisor to tell him he wasn’t feeling well enough to keep working after all. Sherlock held his brother’s hand as Anthea drove them to the remnants of Southend airport. Mycroft was arguing with people over the phone, demanding that they give his brother clearance to study the crime scene. Eventually he hung up the phone.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded when his brother didn’t explain immediately.

Mycroft drew Sherlock close, tucking him against his side, “There isn’t much to study, apparently. The plane must have been carrying explosives. The entire area is engulfed in flames. We won’t find much to have survived that.”

“The black box?” Sherlock asked, taking Mycroft’s response to mean they’d been given clearance.

“High temperatures can damage it, but they remain hopeful. At the moment they’re just trying to contain the fire.”

“Which means they’ll be dumping foam on it,” Sherlock sighed.

“And spraying it with water, and perhaps even setting off their own contained explosion in an attempt to suck out the oxygen and kill the flames. It’s rather intense there at the moment.”

“I doubt the latter,” Sherlock muttered, arguing out of habit, “The fuel on the premises would make a ‘controlled’ burst impossible for such small minds to calculate.”

“Offering your services?” Mycroft argued back, but his heart wasn’t in it and Sherlock didn’t respond.

“What about the other brothers? Geraat and Djames?” Sherlock demanded to know. The middle and youngest of John’s half siblings were still in the wind, the youngest having fled when they reached his village just before Lestrade contacted them.

“I’ve got people looking for them. Is this where you think your efforts are best?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “Take me back to Baker Street.”

He’d just seen a familiar sight, a homeless person on the corner of the street. Specifically a homeless _Satyr_. It had triggered a recollection for him. Sherlock hopped out of the car and bolted into his flat, shouting for Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, Sherlock! It’s been such a mad house! Have you found DJawn?”

“No, but you’ve had a visitor who used his old name. What did she give you?”

“She demanded money from me, can you believe that?”

Sherlock swore, “ _Tell me_ you paid her and she gave you the information!”

“Well, I didn’t want to, but…” Mrs. Hudson pulled a filthy bit of parchment from her pocket and Sherlock snatched it up.

It was a torn off bit of a white paper bag which had been scrawled on with surprisingly neat penmanship. Sherlock realized with a note of surprise that the woman living on the street was educated- she was likely a teacher before she had become itinerant. All that paled in comparison to the information Sherlock saw on the fried food scented paper before him.

“You’re smiling,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “Well, I guess that was worth £50!”

“Not really. We agreed on ten. She swindled you,” Sherlock muttered, then leaned in and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, “I know where Djawn is!”

“Oh good!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, “Shall I have dinner ready?”

“Something festive!” Sherlock called back, “Make it turkey!”

“Turkey! I haven’t the time to…”

Sherlock slammed the door on her protests and bolted up to his own flat where Mycroft was putting on the kettle.

“I see we haven’t got time for me to shower,” Mycroft sighed, “Seeing Gregory while in this state was _most_ embarrassing.”

“I have to go back to the college,” Sherlock babbled, “I left there too early. Or rather I _went_ there too early.”

Sherlock handed the paper to Mycroft who looked it over and frowned.

**_Found. Signal from window. Shirt if want help. Trousers if do not. U pay._ **

“What’s this mean, then? And why have you got a piece of bag from a fish and chips restaurant, written on by a homeless ex-schoolmarm Doe in her late fifties with gingivitis and an infected wound on her right hand?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone in shock, “You don’t know?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Really?” Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, “It’s Christmas!”

“Is that really appropriate?” Mycroft scoffed.

“Sod appropriate, I win this round!”

Mycroft sighed, “Fine. Explain.”

“John _was_ taken to Oxford by one of my old flames, but the fellow wanted this to play out so he made sure I didn’t find him. He’s smart, Mycroft. Brilliant, really.”

“Oh, then why do this? Why not make something of himself?”

“Because he’s _bored_ , and this is his attempt to seduce me,” Sherlock explained before dunking a shirt beneath the tap and then hurrying to the window to hang it out to dry.

“Seduce you?” Mycroft snorted, ignoring his brother’s odd behavior.

“Yes, I imagine he failed in the past. One of the men who _didn’t_ manage to get into my bed.”

“I rather dislike how few that sounds like.”

“What can I say? We don’t all fall for the person who took our virginity.”

“John wasn’t your first? Don’t lie, it’s pathetic.”

“He wasn’t my _last_ ,” Sherlock frowned.

“I refuse to be ashamed that my only sexual partner was my Husband.”

“You aren’t even married yet.”

“We will be. Soon.”

“When?”

“Why is this relevant at the moment?”

“Because it makes you turn purple and I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

A knock sounded at the door and Sherlock grinned. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and exclaimed in alarm: “Sherlock! Oh, now, this really _is_ too much!”

“Send them up, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called out.

Three Bucks, rough and stinking of sweat, stepped into the room. They all stared carefully at each other and Sherlock nodded in greeting.

“We haven’t been able to get close. We prayed to the gods for help,” One of them grunted, his voice so hoarse from smoking that he sounded as if he were speaking both Satyrese and English all at once.

“Well, have the gods answered?” Sherlock asked.

“They got us in contact with you, didn’t they? Agaat told us you would have a plan,” The Buck huffed.

“Fair enough,” Sherlock nodded, “Though I was hoping for a bit more.”

“You know Agaat?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

The three Bucks gave him a confused look.

“Everyone knows an Agaat. She is on our side… for now,” The first Buck decided, pointing at Mycroft, “He’s seen her.”

“An Agaat? As in there is more than one?” Myroft questioned.

The three Fauns exchanged amused looks, and the speaker queried, “You don’t know what an Agaat is, do you?”

Mycroft looked fit to protest, but Sherlock stepped in, “Explain it to us.”

“Agaat is our word for… not doctor. Not godess. Something in between.”

“A witch doctor?” Sherlock guessed.

“A demigod?” Mycroft asked.

“Don’t know that word,” The Buck shrugged towards Mycroft, and then gave Sherlock an annoyed look, “We are not _savages_.”

“It means someone who is half-god and half-Human,” Mycroft filled in.

“No.”

“You said everyone knows an Agaat,” Sherlock asked, “Exactly how many are there?”

The Faun shrugged, “Some say three. Some say one for every village. Some say one for every family.”

“Three… Fates?” Mycroft questioned, thinking back to his Greek lessons.

“Fates? Yes. Fates is good word for Agaat,” The man shrugged, though he still looked as if it wasn’t quite settled.

“Agaat is a title, then,” Sherlock decided, “Someone who becomes a sort of mystic to them. Probably once they’ve been an elder for a bit, or proven themselves.”

The Bucks gave Sherlock an annoyed look, but he was oblivious since he was hurriedly searching for something in the flat.

“I don’t think so,” Mycroft murmured, thinking of Agaat appearing to him in so many places… not to mention a shadowy figure collecting a snake from his home. Sherlock hadn’t heard him, and Mycroft didn’t push.

“How will an Agaat being on our side help?” Sherlock demanded to know as he pulled John’s gun out from beneath a couch cushion.

“She may give us aid, but don’t rely on her. She is fickle,” The Faun insisted.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock scoffed, “Fickle aid aside, let’s get this started, shall we? Mycroft, I’ll need the car. No need to lend me a driver.”

“I’m going with you,” Mycroft stated.

“No you aren’t,” Sherlock scoffed, “The amount of movement you’ve put out so far is already shocking. This isn’t your area; it could be dangerous.”

“Agaat told us to stay close, that I was to never leave your side. She even mentioned taking our lovers together. The implication is to stay with you until the danger is completely passed.”

Sherlock laughed outloud, “And you’re taking her up on that? An old woman high off her own herbs?”

Mycroft frowned, “I wouldn’t take her so lightly if I were you, she’s likely the reason we’re orphans.”

That got Sherlock to pause and he nodded somberly to Mycroft. Once he had gathered everything he thought they needed they all headed out the door and into Mycroft’s vehicle. The men piled in close and the car soon smelled strongly of Satyr sweat. Mycroft was fit to gag. He enjoyed this aroma when it clung to Gregory’s body, but three strange Satyr in close quarters? He was ready to be sick.

XXX

Lestrade quietly slipped his eldest son into his bed and tucked him in beside his sister. Adrastos had to stay in a different bed due to his fragility, so Lestrade had rocked him first and slipped him into his bassinet in the room he shared with Mycroft. When he returned to their rooms he automatically checked on their smallest child, but when he looked into the bassinet he felt his heart clench in horror. The basket was empty.

XXX

Sherlock’s phone went off and he answered it with a sense of dread.

“This one is defective,” A shaky voice told him, “Sorry. She’s blind.”

“I’m on my way to you now. No more games. No more victims,” Sherlock stated, “I know where you’re keeping John.”

“This one is a… funny one. I think I like her the best. She reminds me of Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock swallowed anxiously, “Do you hear me? This isn’t _working._ I like to be amused as much as the next sociopath, but you aren’t going to woo me this way!”

“If you don’t play, she will pay.”

“I want to see you,” Sherlock replied, lowering his voice an octave and picturing his lover nude to give it the ambiance it needed.

_That white tail flickering. John fingering himself… no… I like it better when he tops me. His hard cock leaking with need, slightly curved and ready to pound me into the mattress. The way his eyes look at me as if I’m the only Man in the universe._

“I need you, lover,” Sherlock growled, “I feel so empty inside. Play with _me_.”

Mycroft scooted away, making a face at Sherlock. The Buck across from him was nodding with a smirk in place. At least _someone_ understood his motives.

“Touch yourself. Send me a video. Make it worth my time and I’ll forgive your disobedience.”

The call ended and Sherlock struggled to open his trousers while Mycroft let out a disgusted huff and turned more towards the window. Sherlock had his cock out and was focusing on making himself hard as he activated the camera on the phone. Anxious, he passed it to the buck sitting across from him and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Hold that steady, keep it focused on me at all times. Can you see me in it?”

“Yes.”

“My face down to my penis?”

“Yes. It’s a pretty little cock.”

“Thank you- now shut up.”

Sherlock’s shut his eyes and focused hard on conjuring images of John being his usual flirty self. John sitting in his favorite chair, stark naked, brushing the hair on his legs and eyeing Sherlock up. John wandering in with an erection and a bottle of lube, tossing it to Sherlock and telling him to prepare himself. John kneeling on the floor with his lips wrapped around Sherlock’s cock while his fingers curled inside of Sherlock’s body, stimulating his prostate while preparing him to take something far larger.

Sherlock tugged his trousers and pants the rest of the way down and spread his legs wide, tossing one over Mycroft’s thigh and the other over another Satyr’s leg. Mycroft swore in disgust and stuck his fingers in his ears, but Sherlock ignored him. He sucked on two of his fingers, vividly thrusting them in and out of his mouth and moaning eagerly while the hand that had been pleasuring his cock reached up to tweak his nipples. A moan in the car drew his attention and he hissed at them to shut up.

_John licking my arsehole while he rubs my bollocks._

Sherlock ran his wet fingers around his hole, pressing and flicking his fingers to simulate a tongue while his other hand cupped and fondled his bollocks.

_John mouthing my cock._

Sherlock licked the palm of his hand and twirled it around the head of his cock, arching his back and moaning loudly. He took up a slow stroke with that hand while pressing his middle finger into his bum. As the pace on his cock increased, his finger dipped in deeper. There was no burn, not after having a Satyr lover for as long as he had. But he was drawing this out for the sake of the video. By the time he slipped in a second finger he was completely bored, but he wasn’t about to let that show. He kept focusing on thoughts of John, telling himself he was doing this for _John_ to see. Finally he had three fingers inside and was actually starting to _enjoy_ the feeling.

His hand sped up on his cock, adding a twist at the wrist, and curled his fingers to press against his prostate. That did it for him. Sherlock moaned out loud at the feel ( _Cock slut_ , John’s voice echoed in his mind, _You love feeling me fill you up, don’t you? You want the whole thing?_ ) of his p-spot being rubbed. He began to shift his hips, gasping and arching his back despite the fact it shifted his fingers out. He decided that was a good feel and started to repeat it, arching down onto his fingers and back off until he was all but bouncing in the seat. They hit a bump and Sherlock’s bollocks drew up. A few more strokes and he was coming hard across his torso- but he wasn’t about to stop there.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his come and pressed his digits to his mouth to suck them off with lurid moans. He continued this for a while and then reached down as if going for more, but detoured to play with his nipples again. By now his cock was limp against his thigh, so he needed to distract from that. A few teases against his nipples and then he ran his fingers into his hair and tugged on it, arching his back and letting out a sigh of pleasure while he stretched his arms up and showed off his lanky body. Sherlock sank back into the seat with a rumble of satisfaction and then opened his eyes and gave the camera a meaningful, sultry look. Then he nodded to the Satyr holding it and leaned forward to take it back.

A few quick clicks had the video whizzing through cyberspace and into the arms of his own personal madman. Sherlock re-dressed himself, ignoring the panting men in the car and his brother’s disgusted glances.

“Was that necessary?” Mycroft asked.

“You were the one who said Agaat wanted us to take our loves while side by side,” Sherlock snorted.

“I don’t believe she meant _literally_.”

“I don’t believe I had a _choice_.”

“We could go back?”

“Not happening. We need to stop this. Now,” Sherlock insisted. Mycroft nodded and they waited.

Finally the phone rang.

“Ha! He watched it twice!” Sherlock laughed before answering, “Did you enjoy yourself as well, my darling?”

“Ugnta?” A voice spoke on the phone.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, “I don’t speak Satyrese.”

“Ugnta?” A child started crying on the other side of the phone, “Ugnta?!”

Sherlock raised his eyes to look at the Bucks around them and found them all staring in horror. Children were all but _sacred_ in their culture. To his shock, the most terrified looking person in the vehicle was Mycroft, who was shaking and staring at Sherlock’s phone as if it were about to kill him.

“Ady,” Mycroft whispered in horror, and then leaned forward, “Adrastos, **Your Sire is here. It’s going to be okay.”**

“Ugntus!” Adrastos sobbed, “Angt Ugnta! Angt! Uh! Uh!”

Mycroft’s hand went over his mouth as tears started up in his eyes.

“What is he saying?” Sherlock asked the Buck across from him.

“He asked for his father twice, then for his sire. Then he asked to be picked up,” The buck replied softly, his eyes filled with worry, “He is very unclear. He may be drugged?”

“He has special needs,” Sherlock replied softly, “I don’t believe he’s spoken before now. He doesn’t walk, either.”

Sherlock took Mycroft’s hand and gripped it tightly before speaking firmly into the phone.

“What do you want? We’ll do anything.”

The phone disconnected and Sherlock listened in agony as his brother sobbed beside him. Then a message came through.

**_Enough games. Meet me at the pool._ **

Sherlock read the text out loud and then told them to step on it.

“Plans have changed, obviously. Mycroft, you’ll be negotiating for your child. You two,” Sherlock pointed to the Bucks across from him, “will be attempting to take out the snipers who will most likely be present. The first bombing was activated by shot rather than timer, so that is the likely method.”

Mycroft’s phone went off and he answered it, “Gregory. I know. I just spoke to him. Yes. He’s alive. Yes, and speaking, too.”

Mycroft was silent a moment and Sherlock waited anxiously, “No. Stay with the other children. Keep them safe. Arm yourself and stand over them. Shoot anyone who comes near, I don’t care who they are. If they don’t have my face, voice, and know where your mole is then you shoot them. Sherlock is the only other person you let near you, and that’s only if he proves himself. That was an _and_ , not an _or._ Shoot to kill. I love you. I worship you. Be safe and keep our young ones close.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and took a steadying breath. When he met Sherlock’s eyes again, Mycroft’s eyes were dark and stormy. Gone was the fear and worry, instead the man who stared back at Sherlock was ready to kill.

“You two,” Sherlock stated, waving at the Buck to his left and the third across from him without breaking eye contact with Mycroft, “Will be covering our retreat. Mycroft, give them guns.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft leaned forward and tapped the side of the door in a specific set of beats. A hatch popped open and he passed guns to each person. They pulled into the up to Rosenblatt pool. The windows open on one full side of the building were Sherlock’s biggest concern where snipers were concerned. The massive amount of water around a special needs child was his second concern. How painful he could make the death of the monster that had _dared_ to lay a hand on his nephew and Husband were his third.

Sherlock and Mycroft walked into the pool, armed and ready to face anything- except what they found themselves facing.

John Watson stood before them, dressed only in his typical loincloth, with no Adrastos in sight and no bomb to explain his compliance. Mycroft swore he could _feel_ Sherlock’s heart breaking beside him.

“Well, this is a turn-up. Isn’t it, Sherlock?”

XXX

John could smell his nephew, but he couldn’t find him. The child couldn’t walk, and therefore couldn’t run. Not that he could either. Not with the wet tile around him and his skid-proof pads removed from the bottom of his hooves. What hurt the most, however, was the look of betrayal on Sherlock’s face- although the murderous expression on Mycroft’s came close.

“Well, this is a turn-up. Isn’t it, Sherlock? Here at the pool where we first met,” John stated clearly, blinking his eyes rapidly to try and show him that _this was false_.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and John watched him re-assess the entire situation.

“Enough borrowed voices, my darling,” Sherlock purred, “Let me see you.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed, but the door clanged behind him and he drew still.

“I had my number. I thought you’d call,” The whiny voice from his ear spoke behind him as well, “Jim Moriarty. _Hiii!”_

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock replied, but he was giving the man behind John a confused look.

John still couldn’t see the man behind him, but he could sense the Human prowling close as surely as he could hear his heals tapping on the floor.

“You still don’t remember me? Jim? Jim from the halls? Jim from your _bedroom_? Well, that was a bit of a disaster, so perhaps that’s for the best.”

“I remember you coming after a few thrusts,” Sherlock scoffed, “What I don’t understand is why you think a one-off and a bottle of wine give you the right to make such demands on me. What do you want?”

“ _You_ , Sherlock. Your brilliance matched to mine. You chose an inferior mate, but I am your equal. I will give you a chance to choose. If you pick me, the tiny goat-thing goes to Mycroft. If you pick John… we all go up in _smoke_.”

John felt his stomach curl in revulsion. He met Sherlock’s eyes and their communication was instantaneous.

“Yeah, okay,” Sherlock said lightly, “You it is, then. After all, you’ve managed to outsmart me. What better mate?”

The man stepped forward, passing John with an oily smile on his face, “Well, that was easy.”

“I’ve masturbated for you. Played your game. Trusted you to keep your word. The old blind woman is safe?”

“Oh, quite. She said I have a soft voice. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Diabetic. Then I am prepared to make a trade. Myself for my nephew and John.”

“Mmm, not quite,” Moriarty replied, “You can have the brat. The Billy, however…”

John saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the racist term, but then saw his eyes widen in fear. John knew why. He’d been told about the snipers and a red gleam catching his eye only confirmed it.

“Give the order, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered in the echoing room, his voice heated as if aroused, “You raise your arm and drop it sharply and they will fire. _Divorcing_ you from your past… and ushering you into your future.”

Moriarty stepped forward again. He was close to Sherlock; John knew what was coming, but that didn’t stop the pain from welling up in his chest when their lips met. The kiss was slow, lazy, and utterly intimate with an audible swirl of tongue as Moriarty turned his head to one side and pressed into Sherlock’s mouth. John couldn’t stop the whine that crawled up his throat, but it was drowned out by the clack of hooves on the floor behind him. Moriarty stepped away from Sherlock quickly, turning to put himself in a defensive position with his back to his trusted snipers, and looked towards the noise.

XXX

Adrastos missed his Daddy. Adrastos missed his Sire. Adrastos was cold, hungry, thirsty, lonely, and wanted something to chew on. He’d piddled on the floor and some had gotten on his hoof. He’d cried to get someone’s attention, but no one had come. No one had ever not come before. Adrastos watched as some smoke drifted into the room from beneath the door. It looked pretty and swirled around so he ran towards it. Then he realized he was running! It was so fun! He’d seen his brother and sister do this, but he had always been carried, so why bother? Now he knew he could so he stood up and chased the swirling smoke around. Laughter filled the echoing room and scared him for a moment, but it went away when he drew still. Then he saw the smoke move again so he chased it some more. He walked _click clack_ down a hall, stomping loudly because it sounded like Uncle Djawn and his nanny and he liked it. He chased the smoke around two corners and then came out into a room with a gigantic bath! For a moment he just watched the water shining in front of him, then he heard a sound and turned to look towards it.

It was Sire! Sire was holding his arms out to him and speaking in that funny language he used. Adrastos didn’t understand most of it, but it was Sire! He put up his arms and ran towards him but then something hit the ground in front of him and sharp things were flying everywhere! Pain welled up in Adrastos tummy and he screamed and cried for his Daddy, but his Daddy didn’t come!

Then Uncle Djawn did something funny. Uncle Djawn hugged the stranger.

XXX

_The cut is minor. The cut is minor. The cut is minor._ Mycroft told himself over and again as he watched his frightened baby sit on the floor beside the pool and wipe his hands through a smear of blood on his lightly furred belly. A bit of glass from the sniper’s shot- gods only knew why he’d fired at (and missed!) a _child_ \- had flown up and struck the terrified Kidd. Adrastos’ eyes, too small for his pudgy face and set far from his flat nose, were screwed up in misery as he wailed and held out his arms to be held. Mycroft had never wanted to walk across a floor so desperately in his life. It was a physical ache in his body. It didn’t help that he now knew the sound of his child’s voice, and the screams for his Daddy and Sire were echoing around the pool, frightening the poor Kidd even more.

John moved, apparently deciding the risk was too high for negotiation with the child in the room. He bolted out and tackled Moriarty, goring him in his eye with one of his horns while Mycroft bolted for Adrastos and Sherlock slammed a device into the glass windows. The windows shattered en-masse, their waterfall of pebbled debris blocking the sniper’s view for a critical few seconds. Hopefully the resultant disorientation would allow them up to a minute to escape their exposed position.

Mycroft snatched up Adrastos and kept running, one of their Satyr allies meeting him at the doorway with a sniper rifle in hand.

“ **Two taken out, but there are four more!** ” He shouted.

Sherlock shouted in terror behind him and Mycroft turned once he’d reached safety to see smears of red everywhere. Sherlock was hauling John backwards towards safety on the opposite side of the windows. Sherlock was white as a bedsheet. Moriarty was still as the grave. John was…

John was bleeding from a bullet wound in his shoulder.  
  
A/N: OMGOSH I am _raping_ this story! Although, I do apologize for the short chapters. I also have exciting news. My muse has just announced that there will be a series 3 for Faun Watson. Who knew? No idea when it will be started/finished, but it's not looking to be long. We'll see.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock watched in awe as his strong lover tackled the slightly taller man. He grabbed the man’s face with both hands as if to kiss him, but gored his eye with one horn at the same moment Sherlock slammed the sonic device into the wall of windows. The glass shattered into tiny pebbles and cascaded down like a beautiful waterfall, raining down on his beloved. For a moment Sherlock thought he’d been in time, for a moment after that he thought the blood was Moriarty’s, for a moment after _that_ he thought the bouncing red glass dancing across the floor and into the pool were beautiful.

Then he saw John turn glazed eyes towards him as if in farewell and reality came crashing down around him. He ducked low and bolted for John, grabbing him and dragging him backwards despite his gasps of agony at the pull on his injury. He got John behind the protective wall, hissing in alarm as another bullet snicked off the floor a few feet in front of John’s right hoof.

Sherlock immediately tugged off his scarf and coat. His scarf he pressed into John’s injury to stem the flow of blood while he tossed the coat over the man to ward off shock. He didn’t even remember putting John’s head in his lap, but there it was.

“Stay with me, John. Djawn. **Stay with me. You must avoid going into** shock. **You have to focus. Think of something that keeps you calm. Lower your heartrate. You’re losing too much blood.”**

John’s eyes met Sherlock’s again and a small smile flickered across his lips, **“You’re so beautiful when you sleep.”**

**“Stay awake.”**

**“You snore.”**

**“I do _not!”_**

John smiled wide for a moment, but then gasped in pain, an anxious look crossing his face, “ **Baby. Sherlock. Don’t let my baby die.”**

 **“Adrastos will be fine,”** Sherlock stated, glancing up to see Mycroft on the phone barking out orders.

Two Satyr were beside his brother, both heavily armed. One of them fired off a shot through the nearby doorway, and his smug look told Sherlock his aim was good. The other fellow was giving the open wall to Sherlock’s left a calculated look, but there was no way a Satyr could safely traverse all that glass to give Sherlock the aid he needed to keep John alive.

“ **No,”** John gasped, his voice wavering, “ ** _My_ baby. _Our_ baby, ** Sherlock **.”**

Sherlock’s eyes turned back to his lover’s pale face, agony surely reflected in them, “You’re _pregnant?”_

John nodded miserably, “ ** _He_ did a ** test. **Said he deduced it when I didn’t like the taste of wheat grass anymore.** Sherlock, **I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”**

 **“It’s fine. It’s all fine. You’ll be okay. Our baby will be…** Mycroft! Mycroft!”

Sherlock’s frantic shouts drew his brother out of his argued conversation on the phone, bringing his eyes to Sherlock. The younger brother knew he need not speak his fears out loud. Mycroft would read it from his face as surely as easily as he’d read a children’s book to the tot on his hip. For a moment horror flickered across Mycroft’s face, and then a gentle, pitying expression. He gave Sherlock a sharp nod and spoke into the phone once more. Sherlock couldn’t hear him over the roar of blood pounding in his ears. He looked back down at John to see he’d passed out in the brief moment that he’d been silently communicating with his older brother. He tried to rouse him as gently as he could, but after observing his breathing pattern had eased he left him and focused on stopping the bleeding. The bullet was still inside of him, which was a blessing in a way as there was only one bleeding wound, but it also meant it might have bounced around inside of him and caused even more internal damage.

The sound of sirens reached his ears almost at the same moment that the sounds of machine gun fire began to echo through the doors on the other side of the diving boards. Sherlock’s mind flew and he estimated that if his enemy burst through those doors a headshot was the most likely result. He’d die not knowing if John and his child had survived.

“It’s going to be okay, John,” Sherlock whispered miserably as he pressed on his lover’s shoulder, “It’s going to be okay.”

The doors were all but kicked open and men in black uniforms flooded into the room. They shouted for the Satyr with Mycroft to put down their weapons, resulting in a shout of offense from Mycroft who rather disliked guns being pointed towards himself and his Kidd. Their Satyr allies willingly disarmed, though they looked annoyed, and Mycroft strode confidently forward at the statement that the snipers had all been either arrested or taken down.

“These four Satyr will be given rewards,” Mycroft announced, indicating the two with the group that had entered the pool as well as the two he’d been standing with.

The ambulance crew came through next, scooping up John, stabilizing his bleeding with large white gauze, covering his face with an oxygen mask, and bearing him away. Sherlock stood there, dumbfounded and staring after his unconscious love.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft clasped Sherlock’s shoulder and gave it a shake, “ _Sherlock_! Go with him.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling numb and disconnected from his surroundings, and followed after at a light jog. He climbed into the ambulance just before they slammed the doors shut.

A/N: Rosenblatt pool. Sherlock is on the left of the images, Mycroft on the right. The diving boards are on Sherlock’s side with (I think?) doors across from him.


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade had made a sort of bunker out of their walk-in closet. He had food, drink, blankets, pillows, toys, and Kidds all stashed in the closet. Along with a gun that _never_ left his hand, though he kept the safety on. His Kidds were nursing hungrily when he heard the bedroom door open with the key. The closet door’s knob was actually jammed, so that took the intruder time to negotiate. When the door was opened the person on the other side would be faced with the back end of the wardrobe Lestrade had brought into it. He slipped his children off his teat and pressed each into a corner before stepping forward. He opened a wardrobe door and kneeled inside, his gun barrel resting in the hole he’d dug out.

“Password!” He shouted just as the doorknob started to rattle.

“The crease between your thigh and… privates,” Mycroft’s voice stated.

“What?”

“Your mole. It’s in the little bald patch in the crease between thigh and genitals, right before the hair starts to thicken.”

“Damn. I thought you meant the one on the back of my neck. I didn’t think you’d noticed that one.”

“I know _everything_ about you, Gregory. Everything. Now kindly lower your gun, come out here, and hold your third child.”

Lestrade had never complied so quickly. He kicked out the wardrobe back as soon as Mycroft opened the door and struggled through the opening. He snatched Adrastos out of Mycroft’s arms and hugged him tightly while Mycroft climbed into the wardrobe to greet his children on the other side. Once Mycroft had emerged with both Kidds over a shoulder, Lestrade greeted him with a heated kiss before stepping back and waiting to hear what had happened.

“Moriarty is dead, his network is being hunted down as we speak. Sherlock is fine, Adrastos has a small cut that has been cared for, but John was shot in the shoulder.”

“Gods,” Lestrade worried.

“I just came to leave Adrastos in your care,” Mycroft explained, “The longer Sherlock is on his own there the more likely he is to get himself into trouble.”

“I’ll pack a bag,” Lestrade stated, hurrying to the nursery to do so.

“I don’t think you understood me,” Mycroft sighed, following after him with Kidds scampering about and shouting excitedly, “Do try to pay attention, dear. _I_ will be going back. You and the Kidds will…”

Lestrade came back out of the nursery with a heart-stopping glare on his face.

“You listen to me Mycroft Holmes,” Lestrade growled, “I may have squeezed out three kids and broken two ribs of late, but I’m not some frail, fainting, Victorian woman. You don’t tell me where I’m going, you don’t tell me what I’m doing, and when one of my own is hurt- when _family_ is hurt- Satyr culture trumps your bloody aristocratic _posturing_. You understane me, Myc?”

“Yes, dear,” Mycroft replied, tugging on his jacket lapels to hide his erection from the Kidds.

“Good,” Lestrade stated, “Now watch the Kidds while I pack a bag for us all.”

Lestrade stomped off and when he returned he looked a bit less furious. He shoved the bag into Mycroft’s hands and hurried into their room. He returned with a handful of clothes for them both and stuffed it into the bag as well. Mycroft made a face at the sight of track pants and sleep pants, but an extra glare from Lestrade kept him silent. Mycroft carried the bag and two kids downstairs while Lestrade walked in front of him with Adrastos on his shoulder. They were still being escorted due to the recent threat, but Lestrade made no complaint at the Kevlar draped over the Kidds and forced on their persons. They slipped into the tinted car and relaxed once it started driving again.

“Gregory,” Mycroft started anxiously.

“No need to apologize,” Lestrade interrupted, “I have a hard time not molly-coddling you sometimes, too. Let’s just focus on Sherlock and John.”

“Thank you, my dear, but I was going to ask about your culture.”

Lestrade’s eyes lit up and he pressed a kiss to his lover’s cheek before handing another toy to his carseat bound daughter.

“What do you want to know?”

“Sherlock has commented on the physical contact before, as have I, but he also mentioned being close to you while you were unconscious. He referenced your culture when you were in the hospital after the poisoning; he had insisted your beds be pushed together so you could hold hands. That’s something I wouldn’t have thought to be normal aside from spouses.”

Lestrade nodded with a fond smile, “Especially during illness or injury, our people find physical comfort important. We have few boundaries, as you’ve noticed, so pushing two beds together between in-laws is really a minimum. If that had occurred in Little Satyr or on a Reservation we’d have been put in a large bed or on a large mat together. Only highly contagious disease would keep us apart, and even then we’d sooner put two strangers with the same illness together than leave someone alone. In this case, we’ll start by comforting Sherlock. Once John is available we’ll be staying in his room with him. The hospital he’s been taken to will have to make room for us- they’re probably used to having to do so.”

Mycroft nodded, having suspected as much. He’d already been warned when they’d hired the staff that Satyr didn’t understand much about ‘personal possessions’. They weren’t thieves, nor would they intentionally walk off with something expensive or personally valuable, but they would take things they had need of. As such, every morning Lestrade put out a bowl of fruit and nuts for the staff to eat to show them his appreciation of them. If something else walked off it was almost always returned, or the person would sometimes ask if they ‘needed’ it. The first time that had occurred it was a rather expensive vase that was being questioned about. Mycroft had been downright insulted and prepared to dismiss the Buck. Lestrade had settled it by asking what the Faun needed it for. He’d explained he was part of a theater and their production needed set material. The vase was something that would fit in the era they were displaying. Mycroft had been impressed with his housecleaner’s extensive knowledge about what he was holding. By the time their conversation was over he had happily packed the vase up with the understanding it- or at the very least an equally valuable replacement- would wander back when it’s usefulness with the Satyr was complete.

XXX

Sherlock was used to being tossed into a jail cell. It was his norm when John wasn’t about to police him that the actual police had to do so. Apparently calling out the head nurse on her prescription drug addiction and insulting a very foul-smelling woman was considered being belligerent. They’d warned him several more times and he’d told them what he thought of their warnings, and then the police had been called. The officer had been one he’d known from working with Lestrade, so he’d been willing to be tolerant with him, but Sherlock had bungled that by diagnosing his untreated venereal disease and pointing him in the direction of the clinic across the street. Now he was ‘cooling his heels in a cell’, which was a ridiculous idiom if ever he’d heard one.

“My heels are not even _remotely_ cold,” Sherlock informed Lestrade when he heard his sigh at the open door.

“John’s out of surgery,” Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock was on his feet and pushing past Lestrade, hurrying out the door with the Satyr hot on his warm heels. They hurried to the hospital and into John’s room where he was sleeping peacefully.

“They told me they weren’t going to put him under,” Sherlock whispered, fiddling with John’s blanket, “He was conscious when they got to the hospital and refused to be sedated. For the baby’s sake.”

“Baby?” Lestrade asked, his voice a cross between hope and worry.

“Yes, Moriarty found out he was pregnant,” Sherlock stroked John’s hair away from his face, “They agreed to do a local only because he was being obstinate and was conscious. I think him being Satyr had something to do with it, too. The doctor made a comment about them being made of sterner stuff and that it was better than giving him a bullet to bite.”

Lestrade snorted and Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock showed them the modified beds this hospital had since it was so close to the Reservation. Each side of the bed had a fold out plastic table with two folding legs to prop it up. A small mat from the closet could be laid across it to make it a seat or bed. It wasn’t as comfortable as the bed itself- it wasn’t comfortable at all- but it allowed Sherlock to stretch out beside his Husband. They had a strict rule against minors kipping on the beds, but they were allowed in the room overnight when the patient was a Satyr. Sherlock lay down beside his Husband and stubbornly refused to eat anything.

At one point the doctor came in and they discussed the likelihood that John’s pregnancy was viable. According to the test done he was pregnant, but estimating male Satyr pregnancy was difficult since they could conceive outside of Heat but had no periods to monitor. Sherlock suspected he was two months pregnant, the results of his last heat, making his last test a false negative. They would do an ultrasound eventually, but their priority was to keep John alive. The doctor estimated that if he managed to keep the baby for 48 hours after the shooting that it would be out of danger for that particular event. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t miscarriage later, of course.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was a few hours later before John woke up with a miserable groan.

“Pain?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

“You refused the better pain killers.”

“I didn’t refuse water,” John whimpered.

“I’ll get you something,” Sherlock replied, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Sherlock returned with ice chips, but popped it into his mouth instead of John’s. Then he sat on the side of the bed and leaned forward to pass it into John’s mouth. They kissed slowly while John rolled the ice around in his mouth. When the chill became too much he passed it back to Sherlock who suckled on it while kissing him gently before passing it back again. They went through this with three ice cubes while John’s body tried its damndest to become aroused despite his exhaustion and blood-loss. Finally John leaned back, flushed and relaxed from receiving Sherlock’s attention, and let himself drift off again. Sherlock slipped down and walked into the hallway to get some coffee. Mycroft was out there with the Kidds.

“What are you doing out here?” Sherlock asked, glancing back in surprise. He hadn’t noticed him leave.

“I’ve seen you in enough S-E-X-U-A-L situations of late,” Mycroft snorted, “And the Kidds don’t need to see that.”

“Where is Lestrade?”

“He’s gone to stretch his legs. He spent a large amount of time in a closet recently.”

“I had no idea you two had so much in common,” Sherlock quipped, “I’m going to get coffee. Stay with John?”

Mycroft nodded and headed into the room with his bored children in tow. They woke John instantly, from what Sherlock heard, but the man sounded glad to see them so Sherlock continued on his way. Sherlock left the hospital to get coffee that wasn’t acidic enough to obliterate his stomach, and on his way he ran into reporters wanting to know the details of the case. He gave them the facts and then dismissed them, apparently not thrilling them in the process.

Once he had his survival fluids he returned to the hospital, but was distracted by the gift shop. Normally he avoided such places like the plague, but a layette set had caught his eye. Sherlock stood in front of the tiny baby section, his mind blissfully blank as the reality of John having a child someday- if not now then in the near future- hit him with a fluttery feeling in his stomach. He noticed a hole in one of the baby outfits and realized it was for a tail. The feet were rounded for hooves with very thick pads to avoid slipping. Sherlock was walking towards the counter with the yellow romper in his hand before he’d even thought of it. They rang him up, asking polite questions which he ignored, and he walked back upstairs while holding the bag tightly to his chest.

Sherlock hid the package, not sure if it was the right time to show it to John, and settled down to wait out his lover’s recovery.

XXX

_There were guards everywhere. She knew she wasn’t going to get into the hospital room, but she had hoped that she would at least get to see…_

_Then he walked out and crossed the street, heading for a café across from the hospital. She held her breath, watching the smooth shift of his hips and the gorgeous curve of his ass. His torso looked bulkier than usual- the Kevlar vest- but it only diminished his beauty a small bit. She waited for a few moments and then hopped out of her car and hurried into the shop as well. She listened to him talk to the reporters, drinking in the sound of his voice, and then smiled as he ordered his usual coffee. Once he collected what he’d come for he headed straight out without glancing either left or right. She had no doubt that he’d noticed her there. He never missed anything._

_She followed him into the hospital despite the fact she thought it was a terrible idea; she just couldn’t resist. She was surprised to see him go into the gift store since tacky things usually were met with bullets rather than credit cards. Then she saw why and had to rush out as tears filled her eyes._

XXX

John shifted in his seat, arching his back to show off his softly rounded abdomen. Sherlock’s eyes flew from the microscope to where John had situated himself in Sherlock’s chair. It was planned, of course. The horny Satyr was trying to get him to bend over for him again. Sherlock was _sore_. They’d been having sex daily, but now John _only_ wanted to top. Sherlock had been fine with that at first, but now it was getting old. That didn’t stop him from rumbling in need at the sight of John’s erect cock pressed against the underside of his swollen belly.

“You’ll be the death of me. Or at the very least a medical difficulty.”

“I’ll be gentle,” John assured, wriggling on the chair and looking as appealing as possible.

“You’re always gentle. Your cock is so sensitive now you can barely press inside me without coming like an over exuberant teenager.”

“You make me so hard when you use big words,” John moaned, stroking his hands over his sensitive thighs.

“You need to ejaculate my dear?” Sherlock asked, turning off his microscope and stalking towards his Husband.

“Yessss,” John hissed, spreading his legs and arching again.

He looked beautiful. His blonde fur was lush with health and his scent was strong and musky. His nipples had taken to leaking fluids on occasion, but they’d been warned away from encouraging it out of concern that it could trigger an early labor. That didn’t stop Sherlock from running his hands through the thick hair on John’s chest and then following the trail down to the damp towel draped around his waist. He loosened it and opened it as if it were a present.

“The Kidds will be over in one hour.”

“I’m sure we’ll be done by then,” John smiled.

Sherlock snorted, and lowered himself to his knees to lap at the head of John’s cock where it reasted against his tummy, “So handsome. My beautiful lover.”

John gasped, his body incredibly sensitive, “My brilliant detective.”

Sherlock continued to tease him gently, his tongue working it’s way around the glands and sliding beneath his foreskin. He lapped at the fluid gathering in the slit and then flicked his tongue from tip to base and back up again while John began to pant and whimper. Sherlock hadn’t been joking earlier; he really was fit to come the second he was touched. He began to stroke his large, furred bollocks and John was soon a babbling mess. Sherlock swallowed John down, suckling on his large pink cock until the man was gasping and right on the edge. Then he popped off and slowly stood up while John groaned and shifted miserably in the chair.

“Bastard,” John groaned.

“One moment, my dear,” Sherlock smiled, and went to fetch the lube.

“You better be making me come soon, Sherlock, or I swear…”

“As if I’d _ever_ leave you wanting,” Sherlock growled, kneeling before him once again.

John was gently shifted forward and Sherlock slicked up his cock. Then he pulled him upright so he was sitting on the edge of the chair. Sherlock grinned. He’d practiced this once when John was out of the flat on a cravings hunt. Now he stripped his clothes slowly off while maintaining eye contact with his panting lover. Once dressed he turned around to show John what he’d been doing to keep himself ready for him, and John gasped in excitement at the sight of the black plug filling his lover. When Sherlock bent over he eagerly reached out to slide it from his body. It was placed on top of John’s newspaper and then a kiss was lovingly pressed to each of Sherlock’s pale cheeks.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder with a smirk and then dropped to his knees and inched backwards until he was pressed to John’s groin, his feet beneath the chair, and bent forward to offer himself up. John’s was breathing hard as he took his cock in hand and pressed the head to Sherlock’s stretched hole.

“Gorgeous,” John breathed, and then moaned as Sherlock pressed back onto him.

“Now just relax,” Sherlock panted, “And let me please you.”

John grinned, “Well, that’s a change.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, “No taunting while I’m impaled on your cock.”

“That’s a good… good rule… gods!”

Sherlock started out slow and then began to build up speed, fingers pressed into the carpet as he rocked back onto John’s swollen cock. The burn was intense, especially with how frequently John had plundered his body, but controlling the speed helped a great deal. He was soon moaning eagerly, his own cock showing interest as John’s large phallus grazed his prostate despite the poor angle. Sherlock’s arse was pushing into John’s baby bump, and the feel of Sherlock’s fleshy globes softly slapping against the bulge they had created was driving both of them crazy. John even dared to reach down and give Sherlock’s arse a sharp smack before rubbing and gripping the spot he’d struck. Sherlock moaned eagerly and sped up his movements, earning himself a slap to the other cheek.

“Oh, gods,” John gasped.

“Yes,” Sherlock panted, feeling the Buck’s cock swelling inside of him.

John shuddered, moaning throatily with his head thrown back as he came hard into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock growled his approval and kept moving through John’s orgasm, quickly triggering a second for the susceptible man. Sherlock loved the sounds John made when approaching a third climax, but the man was so hypersensitive that he knew that was almost impossible for him. Instead he slid off of his cock and turned around while John sagged back in relief. Sherlock stood up and leaned over his body, one hand propped on the chair arm and the other working his cock. John reached out and cupped his hand over the man’s bollocks, stroking his taint with one finger. The stimulation was enough to bring Sherlock close to the edge and he began to flex his hips and growl as he chased his release.

“Yes,” John whispered, “Come all over me, my love. _Paint_ me.”

Sherlock grunted, his hot seed spraying across John’s body, and groaned as the man rubbed it into his body.

“You’re going to need another shower,” Sherlock panted, “And Mycroft will be dropping off the KIdds in ten minutes.

“Mmm, best get on that, then,” John sighed, looking about to fall asleep.

“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not taking those Kidds to the zoo alone. Go wash up.”

John grumbled but obeyed, hurrying into the shower. Mycroft showed up while they were both still in the shower, John fingering Sherlock’s arse to encourage the fluids to leak out of him faster. He brought him off once again as well, just to thank him for being so sweet to him during his pregnancy. By the time they left the shower they were both flushed and giggling. They dressed quickly and headed into the living room where Mycroft gave them an annoyed look.

“Must you delay? Gregory will be in some discomfort by the time I get back.”

“Relax, Mycroft,” Sherlock scoffed, “You’ll get back in plenty of time for his Rut.”

“Have fun with your uncles,” Mycroft all but ordered his children, giving them each a perfunctory kiss on the forehead, “Don’t break them. John, you look radiant. Do take care that they don’t kick you.”

“I’ll be fine,” John chuckled, “I’ve been handling Kidds for years.”

XXX

Lestrade was already feeling feverish when Mycroft returned. He’d spent the last two days all but chasing his lover around the house, insisting he remain nearby despite the fact his Rut was days away. Mycroft had been tolerant and flirty, giving him bashful looks just to drive him crazy or occasionally pressing him into the wall and boldly kissing him. They had dropped the Kidds off that morning when Lestrade had checked his temperature and found he was ovulating.

“It will be an hour, two hours tops. Better get our little ones out the door so we can make some more,” Lestrade teased with a grin.

Mycroft had taken forever dropping off the Kidds, but when he returned Lestrade wasn’t quite there yet. That didn’t stop him from crowding Mycroft into their bedroom and rubbing himself all over him to stake his claim.

“Mine,” Lestrade growled, “My mate. My beloved. Going to fill you up and make your belly swell.”

“We both know that isn’t possible,” Mycroft panted.

“Fine. You’ll fill me up and make _my_ belly swell. Did you like seeing John? Was he sexy with his belly found and filled with your brother’s Kidds?”

“That question is _clearly_ a trap,” Mycroft replied, grinding his backside into Lestrade’s groin as the man licked and bit at his neck.

“Going to make you come until you faint.”

Mycroft moaned. Gregory had become pregnant outside of Rut, so this would be their first Rut together and Mycroft was a bit frightened. Men and women alike had been inadvertently harmed during a Rut with a Satyr. He’d wanted to get advice from Sherlock, since his brother had gone through several with John, but he felt a bit off asking his _younger_ _brother_ for sex advice.

 _I had rather write a column_ , Mycroft thought as Gregory tugged down his trousers and started lapping at his arse hungrily.

“You used the kit?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “I used the enema kit before I took the Kidds to their Uncles’. It was _disgusting_.”

Lestrade chuckled, “You’ll thank me later.”

“I doubt it.”

Lestrade pressed his tongue inside of Mycroft and he cried out in surprise as pleasure shot through his body and swelled his cock. The Buck leaned back to finger him open, applying copious amounts of lube both inside and out. Lestrade pinned him down again, growling aggressively and rubbed his hips against his thigh, calf, ankle, even the bottom of his feet.

“Is that really… necessary,” Mycroft huffed, trying not to laugh as Lestrade’s thick groin fur tickled his foot.

“Yes. I want you to smell _mine_.”

“I am yours,” Mycroft growled, grabbing him by his hair and tugging him upwards. He found his little button horns and rubbed them with his thumbs until the man growled and they began to tussle with him.

For a moment they wrestled, a mock dominance fight that both knew belonged to Lestrade. He had no reason to be anything but submissive to Lestrade in bed, especially since giving up the weight of power he held every day was his truest escape.

Sure enough, Lestrade soon exerted his superior strength to pin him. Mycroft whimpered and arched his back, offering himself up for Gregory’s pleasure. He agreed to his actions with a pleased groan and slid down his body to lap at his cock as a reward. Mycroft whimpered and wriggled, happy to oblige if it got him that sort of reward. He was just relaxing into the feel of Lestrade’s lips around his cock when the man suddenly groaned and arched his back, lifting his arse in the air.

The room filled with a thick scent that sent blood pumping through Mycroft’s body at an alarming rate. Lestrade’s tail was twitching, flickering above them as he whined and groaned in pain.

“My,” Gregory whined, “Please.”

“Yes,” Mycroft panted, climbing out from beneath him.

They’d already worked it out that Mycroft would start out topping. Once he was spent he’d bottom.

Mycroft moved behind Gregory, spreading his cheeks and staring in surprise at his soaked bottom. While he did make lubrication regularly, this was almost overwhelming. He slid two fingers inside and scissored them, relieved to find that he stretched quickly and easily. Lestrade’s cries were getting more intense, so Mycroft lined himself up and pressed inside with a quick thrust. Gregory cried out in bliss, arching his back and beginning to thrust himself back onto Mycroft’s cock.

“Oh, gods, My!”

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed.

He so rarely topped that the sensation was overwhelming, but he had to hold himself back. Gregory was going to be in this state for _hours_ , despite ejaculating multiple times. While his Rut scent would cause Mycroft to recover faster than usual, he was still going to have trouble keeping up with his Satyr lover. He teased the man’s sensitive tail, flicking his thumb across the sensitive gland just above his stretched entrance. It was second best to massaging his prostate, but Mycroft was determined to hit that as well and angled his hips until he heard Gregory’s cries change pitch.  

Lestrade was desperate for release, thrusting hard back against Mycroft’s body while he lazily rolled his hips. He grasped his cock and stroked it fast, rolling his thumb over the tip to bring himself off as quickly as possible. The first climax was more of a tease than a release, leaving him whining for more. The second gave him some of his mind back, enough to listen in joy to the sound of his beloved moaning his name. When Mycroft came inside of him Lestrade shouted his approval, his muscles clenching in longing for the family this man could give him once again. This time there was joy instead of sorrow and a sense of settling for the second best future.

Mycroft renewed his thrusts, taking his lover fast and hard. He knew that he should hold back, but his desire was overwhelming him. Gregory’s cries were erotic in the extreme, reminding him of why he’d first been unable to resist the man he’d met in that office so long ago. His screams of pleasure as he rounded his third orgasm were enough to bring Mycroft off a second time.

Swearing in frustration, Mycroft managed a few more thrusts before he pulled out and tossed himself belly down on the bed. He flopped over just as Lestrade scrambled onto him. He wrapped his legs around his Buck’s waist and guided the frantic man into his body. His hiss of pain did not go unnoticed. Gregory stilled, pressing small kisses to his lips as he gave Mycroft time to adjust. It cost him. He was sweating and whimpering in pain. Finally Mycroft shifted his hips and Gregory went wild, pounding into him with sharp cries of pleasure and need.

Gregory managed a few more climaxes before the constant stimulation on Mycroft’s prostate brought him over the edge again with a cry stuck between pain and pleasure. Mycroft drifted away, his mind dazed with pleasure and overwhelmed with sensation; the sound of Gregory’s pleasure a symphony in his ears.

XXX

They headed to the Zoo with the Kidds, keeping Adrastos close since he tended to forget to stay with them. Mycroft refused to leash his Kidds and they refused to sit in strollers, so John and Sherlock had to take turns passing him back and forth. Luckily he wasn’t overly heavy despite his plumpness and the other two Kidds were content to walk (run) everywhere. They called them back whenever they wandered and told off any reporters that tried to photograph them. John did allow the reporters to photograph his belly, Sherlock touching it possessively, and that seemed to appease them a bit.

After an exhausting day chasing after them, John collapsed into bed to sleep while Sherlock drove the Kidds home. Lestrade answered the door, looking flushed and spent with a distinct limp in his step.

“Had fun?” Sherlock smirked.

“Don’t start. You know what it’s like. Fun doesn’t come into it.”

“Just so long as _you_ came into it,” Sherlock smirked.

“Oi! Kidds!” Lestrade scolded, giving Sherlock a playful shove.

They parted ways amicably and Lestrade put the Kidds to bed before heading up to check on his lover. Mycroft was soaking in the tub to recover from their day of wild sex.

“Okay?” Lestrade asked.

“Recovering. You’re so _vibrant_ ,” Mycroft replied, scooting over to allow Lestrade room to sink in.

“Well, that’s a term my lovers have never used to describe me before!”

“What about your Husband?” Mycroft asked cautiously.

Lestrade dropped his eyes for a moment, and then looked back up to him, “Well we’re probably pregnant again…”

“Yes.”

“Already raising three Kidds.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not about to raise my Kidds with anyone else.”

“Thank gods for that.”

“You’re not going anywhere this time, are you?” Lestrade asked, his anxiety palatable.

“I wouldn’t have the first time had my father not threatened Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded gently, “Even then, if it hadn’t been a matter of life and death…”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, barely able to breathe for hope.

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

XXX

_She pulled out her phone, knowing there was only one way she would be able to put the thought of Sherlock reproducing with Djawn Watson out of her mind. The video started out fairly tame with Sherlock touching himself almost shyly, while his brother tried to avoid being caught on camera or seeing the display, before he was out and out fingering himself while fucking his hand. She was practically imitating his position, the phone propped up on her dash while she fingered herself with one hand and teased her clit with the other._

_“Oh, Sherlock,” She whispered, “You’re so beautiful when you’re about to come.”_

_She came with a soft gasp as Sherlock’s seed sprayed across his body._

_“We’re so in sync,” She sighed as she readjusted her clothing, “I just wish you could see that.”_

_Feeling far more relaxed she headed home, passing Baker Street as she always did, and laughing at the sight of someone painting over her eye again. It didn’t matter. She’d finished with that phase._

(To have a say in the next story to be worked on go to this post and vote http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/138565.html)


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